Memento
by scarylolita
Summary: After losing his job at the library, Kyle ends up at the local bar. Drunk and desperate, he agrees to be the mayor's personal assistant. It might not be so bad if the mayor wasn't Eric Cartman. Slash, dark themes.
1. KB: Feel, drink, forget

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**This is going to get dark and disgusting. Cartman may seem too nice, but it's all part of his twisted long-term plan. Be warned.**

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

An hour ago I lost my job. No, I wasn't fired… I was _let go_.

But in the end, it's the same thing, right?

The library doesn't get much attention these days and soon enough there will be contractors asking to tear the building down.

So now here I am – at the most obvious place.

A bar.

Isn't that where all people go when they lose their jobs? They sit down and they whine to the bartender about all the shit going on in their life and the bartender pretends to listen and be sympathetic. Fortunately for me, Kenny works here. I'm not the kind of man who will talk to the first stranger who asks what's wrong. I'm not digging for pity.

I'm not.

I just need a drink. I just need a distraction and on more than one occasion, Kenny has been here to offer me both.

"Come on, Kyle," he says in an attempt to reason with me. "You'll find a new job soon, a smart guy like you."

"Kenny," I seethe from my seat on the bar stool, "my intellect is hardly the issue. The economy is the issue! Do you know how damn hard it was to get a job after moving back here last year?"

"Sorry, you're right," he smiles, fixing me a drink. "You should have left South Park for good."

I shrug, taking the drink Kenny places in front of me.

Feel.

Drink.

Forget.

Does it even help?

You're all headache and nausea, unable to bring yourself to move a finger the morning after. You wake staring up at the ceiling light and it feels as if you're looking directly into the sun. Too bright! Too Bright! You squint as the light continues to stream against your face and sore eyes, making your hangover worse than it already is.

Once your headache is gone you get sick again, trying to remember everything that happened and all the stupid things you did or said. It makes things worse.

It's a ritual for me. A ritual I never can remember.

"Where's Stan these days?" Kenny asks. "He hasn't dropped by in a while."

"Who knows?" I snort. "Now that he's finally happy, I rarely hear from him."

"Dude, you live with the guy," he chuckles.

"It's not like he's ever home anymore," I say. "Ever since Wendy got her own place, he's been there. I think he's going to move out soon and move in with her."

"You okay with that?"

"Tsk…" I click my tongue. "I can't afford to pay the rent by myself with the way things are going."

"He won't just ditch you like that, dude."

"He might," I laugh. "You know how he is… He's a good person, he just doesn't think sometimes."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"Mhm," I murmur, taking a long sip of the drink in my hand. Kenny continues to talk. He says a lot more these days. He used to be the quiet one – saying nothing but seeing everything.

Minutes later, Butters walks inside and as soon as Kenny spots the naïve blond, he waves him over.

"Hiya, fellas," Butters greets us.

"Hi, Butters," I say, trying to liven up.

"Is everything all right, Kyle?"

Guess I wasn't convincing.

"Kyle just lost his job," Kenny supplies.

"Oh, no," Butters frowns.

"Yeah," I mumble, taking another sip.

"What'll it be tonight, Butters?" Kenny asks.

"Oh, um," he taps his chin. "I don't know, just make me something you think I'll like."

"Sure. I'll make you a special drink," Kenny winks at Butters and I just roll my eyes at them both – at Kenny for being so damn obvious and at Butters for being so damn oblivious.

If you have feelings for someone, you should just fucking tell them.

I swear I'm surrounded by morons.

"Make me another while you're at it, Kenny."

* * *

As midnight approaches, I begin slurring my speech and Kenny is laughing. "It's so rare to see the dignified Kyle Broflovski getting drunk in public," he snorts.

Butters left a while ago. I wish I left, too. I'm now too drunk to drive home. "I'm hardly dignified," I roll my eyes, chugging my most recent beverage. "And it's hardly rare these days."

"I guess that's true…"

"I'm sure I'll regret it in the morning."

"Probably," Kenny laughs. "Call me when you wake up tomorrow and I'll buy you McDicks."

"No, thanks," I say. "I don't need to be putting even more shit in my body."

"Aw, come on," he reasons. "You're in perfect shape; you can junk it every so often."

I shrug, yawning. "Alcohol always makes me tired. I should prolly head home…"

"How are you going to get home?" Kenny asks. "You drove here, right? You can't exactly drive home."

"I know," I press my forehead onto the countertop.

"I can drive you home after my shift is over."

"When are you off?" I ask.

"At three."

"What? That's hours away."

He shrugs, smiling sympathetically. "Your fault for getting drunk, dude."

And moments later, as if life is punishing me, Eric Cartman walks through the doors.

"Hey!" Kenny waves to him, all smiles. "I haven't seen you in a while!"

"Yeah, I know," Cartman says, taking a seat next to me. "I've been busy."

Honestly, I haven't said a word to him since I was eighteen – before I left for university. I'm twenty-four now and it's been six years since then. I've seen him around town, though. He's always surrounded by the people who work for him. His aides. He seems to have a different one every damn week. It's probably because he's too difficult to get along with.

"Wouldn't it be scandalous if the mayor is seen in a shithole like this?" I slur the question, finishing off yet another drink.

"Oh, Kahl," he says. "I didn't even know that was you… It's been a while."

"Yeah."

"I didn't think you came here."

Cartman claims to have turned over a new leaf and the townsfolk licked the story up.

I didn't believe him.

I still don't.

"I'm visiting Kenny," I say.

"And, by the looks of it, you're making quite a night of it," he laughs boisterously, playing the nice guy. "I didn't know you were still such a lush, Kahl."

I grimace.

"Kyle just lost his job," Kenny tells him.

"Yes," I say tersely. "Please, Kenny, tell everyone who walks in all about it, why don't you?"

He's too nice and too trusting. There are times when other people have to pay the price for it. "Sorry," he grins sheepishly. "Hey, Eric, what can I get you to drink?"

"Whisky," he murmurs, "straight."

Kenny simply nods, turning around to pour the drink.

"So," Cartman turns to me. "You got fired?"

"I didn't get fired!" I growl.

"Then you got laid off?" he asks. "Don't sweat it, it's not forever."

"I didn't get laid off either," I say, grinding my teeth.

"Then, what?"

"They _let me go_. Permanently."

"Why?"

"They didn't need me anymore," I admit sourly, not wanting to talk about it.

"Weak."

"To put it simply, yes, it's weak."

"You know what," he mentions somewhat offhandedly, "you may be in luck."

"Oh, and why's that?" I ask tartly.

"I'm looking for a personal assistant… An aide, if you will. I just fired mine."

I snort, "Yeah fuckin' right, like hell I'd work for you."

"Well, good luck finding another job in this little town."

"Kyle," Kenny cuts in, "you should consider an offer like that."

I wrinkle my nose at the both of them.

"You studied business, right?" Cartman asks.

"Only for four years," I say. "I didn't like it much, so I came back here after finishing my degree."

"That's perfectly fine," he insists. "I know you're more than capable."

"I never said I accepted the offer," I say tersely.

"Come on, Kahl. We both know you will."

I let out a sigh. I know that this is hardly a selfless offer, but honestly, I'm so fucking desperate and stressed out right now I don't have time to think hard about what the consequences may be.

I know I'll regret it, but…

"Fine," I grit out. "When is the interview?"

"Come in tomorrow," he stands up after finishing his drink. "I'll be at the office all day, so just drop by anytime and we'll settle things."

"Fine," I mumble, pressing a hand to my forehead.

I feel a migraine coming on…

"Hey," Kenny calls to Cartman as he nears the door.

"Yeah?"

"Drive Kyle home, would yah? He's getting sick."

"No," I groan, rubbing my temples.

"Yeah," Kenny says. "I don't need you hurling on the counter, dude."

"Tsk…" I click my tongue.

Tonight sucks.

* * *

I can hardly stand up straight as we leave the bar, and I almost slip on a patch of ice as we near Cartman's car.

"Ah, _fuck_!"

"You good?" he asks after I collect myself.

"Fine," I hiss, opening the passenger door and getting in.

The car ride is completely quiet, and I'm fine with that. I'd rather not be friends with someone I will be working for, but I suppose that's just how it has to be for now – at least, until I find a new job.

This is just back up…

As we near my apartment, I begin to feel nauseous.

"I'm gonna puke," I moan, and Cartman immediate starts driving faster.

"Not in the car, not in the car," he chants as we pull into the parking lot.

I open the door and bend over, immediately puking on myself before it hits the pavement. How awful. Of course I had to look like this in front of Eric fuckin' Cartman. He's probably going to laugh at me for it and never let me forget about it. Just what I need.

"Ah… Jesus Christ," he says, getting out of the car to help me.

"Stop it!" I yell, stumbling as I push him away.

"Stop what?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Stop helping you?"

"Stop being so fucking nice!" I growl, puke still on my chin. "I know it's all an act so you can drop it!"

He smirks. "I don't know what you mean, Kahl."

"Everyone else might believe you, but I don't," I whisper, finally wiping the puke off my chin before digging the keys out of my pockets.

I'm silently hoping that Stan isn't home. He probably isn't. He's rarely home these days.

I try to walk straight and I try even harder to imagine I have at least _some_ dignity left – but I probably look even stupider than I feel and that's saying something because I feel pretty fucking retarded right now. Jeez, I wish I would just pass out already.

I unlock the door to my apartment building, ignoring the fact that Cartman is following me. "Kahl," he says.

I don't say anything, so instead, he keeps talking –

"You live with Stan, right?"

"Yes."

"Is he home?"

"I dunno. Why the fuck's it matter?" I ask him, opening the door.

"Because I don't want you to drown in your own vomit," he says as we walk down the hall. "I just hired you and I don't need you dying on me."

I roll my eyes, almost tripping as we go up the stairs. "How fuckin' selfless of you."

As we reach the apartment I share with Stan, I drunkenly struggle to unlock the door.

"Fucking hell," I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Tsk," Cartman clicks his tongue, taking the keys from me. "Let me do it."

He unlocks the door with ease and opens it to reveal empty darkness.

I change my mind, I wish Stan was home. I'd rather have him take care of me than Cartman. Honestly, I'm worried he'll do something creepy. It wouldn't be surprising if he tried, and with the state I'm in right now, he would easily get away with it. Everyone knows I never remember things come morning. That's why I am careful to only drink around friends. Eric Cartman is no friend of mine.

"You don't need to be here," I murmur, holding the walls as I make my way to the bathroom. "You can go home."

"You sure about that, Kahl?" Cartman asks.

"Yes!" I hiss out, slumping down in front of the toilet and rubbing my forehead. "I don't _want_ or _need_ you here, so fuck off."

He doesn't answer.

I lean over the toilet bowl, spitting and drooling into it. I hear Cartman make a sound of disgust and I laugh bitterly at his reaction. Seconds later, I feel my stomach muscles tighten before I begin to vomit again. I wonder why it feels so damn good to puke when you're too drunk. It's relief, I suppose.

"Hey," I say to Cartman, spitting into the toilet some more.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"You don't need to fucking stare at me in here… Go watch TV or something, you sadistic fuck."

"You know, you have quite the mouth on you," he snorts before walking off.

I wipe my teary eyes and wipe my mouth with a piece of toilet paper. "God dammit," I whisper to myself, taking a breath before shakily standing up. I flush the disgusting mess down the toilet before moving towards the sink and washing my hands and rinsing out my mouth. I brush my teeth for a good few minutes before finally exiting the bathroom.

In the living room, I see Cartman on the sofa aimlessly flicking through channels. When he spots me, he says, "You should probably change."

"I'm gonna," I mumble as I stumble to my bedroom.

Once inside, I immediately take of my puke covered shirt and pants, shuddering slightly at the rush of cold air on my skin.

I leaf through my dresser, pulling on a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants.

A minute later, Cartman enters my room without even knocker. He's holding a glass of water.

I glance at it suspiciously.

"It isn't poisoned," he says with a smirk.

"I never said it was," I spit, taking the glass from him and downing its contents.

"You shouldn't have drunk that much at the bar."

"Don't gimme that shit," I murmur, slamming the cup down on my nightstand like I'm slamming down an empty shot glass.

"Since when do you drink like that?"

"Fuck. Off."

"Kahl –"

"I can't deal with you when I'm like this, so leave me the fuck alone. I'm goin' t'bed." I flop onto my mattress and lay down with my back facing him in hopes that he'll leave.

As I close my eyes, I swear I feel a hand on me, but I'm too exhausted to budge an inch.


	2. EC: What I want

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Eric's POV**

* * *

Kyle got so wasted tonight.

It's hilarious. I wish I could whip out a video camera and record the whole night. I never took him for the type to go to bars. Back in the day, he was all about staying safe at home. He's such a prude about most things… Or at least, he used to be. He's full of surprises.

If I wasn't trying to keep up the nice guy act, I probably would have laughed in his face, but the last thing I need right now is for him to start spreading shit about me. I'm the mayor, after all. Then again, I suppose it wouldn't matter what he says. The idiots in this fucking town love me. However, I'd still like to keep my record squeaky clean just in case.

After Kyle shuts his eyes, I cop a feel. I can't help it. So sue me. It's not like he'll even remember in in the morning. He never remembers shit when he drinks. I've discovered that when we were younger.

I'm surprised more people haven't taken advantage of him. With that drunken flush and lack of coordination, he makes it so damn easy. In our teenaged years I've done so many vile things to him – worse than anything I've ever done to Butters. Unfortunately, there is no photographic evidence. They're just damn sweet memories…

Though, I've never fucked him. I want him to be awake the first time I do it. I want to see the emotion in his eyes, whatever it may be. I want to hear him moaning even when he doesn't want to and I want to know it's all because of me.

I'm so damn sick, aren't I? Thinking about it gets me antsy. I haven't had a good lay in quite a while.

Soon enough, Kyle's breathing evens and I can tell he's finally passed out. I've been waiting to have the damn Jew in my hands for so fucking long and now I've got him. This time, I'm going to make it so he can't get away.

I flip him over so he's lying on his back and I just stare at his face – the content look he's now wearing.

Earlier, I couldn't help but think there was something attractive about the expressions on his face, no matter how ugly they may have been. They were all directed towards me and maybe that says something. If I can't have his love, I'll happily take his hatred.

I lift his shirt up, revealing his pale, flat stomach. I run my hand over it. He's soft… God, I haven't touched him in so damn long.

Soon enough I'll have him exactly where I want him. This time, I'm going to break him. I'll break him and he won't even want to leave… I'm going to make a mess out of him.

A second later, I hear the front door open.

That fucker Stan must be back.

With a sigh, I pull Kyle's shirt back down and leave the room.

"Cartman?" Stan asks when he spots me. "What are you doing here?"

"Kahl got drunk," I tell him. "I just dragged him back here."

"Oh," Stan says, placing his keys on a nearby ledge. "That was nice of you."

"He puked a lot and now he's passed out."

"All right," he nods, frowning slightly. "Hey, thanks for taking care of him."

"Sure," I say before leaving.

What a fucking night.

I'm so damn glad I decided to go to the bar and visit the poor-boy after all. If I went straight home, I would have missed out on quite the opportunity.

I guess fate was on my side tonight.

* * *

In the morning, I give Kyle a call and remind him of our appointment. He informs me that he needs to pick up his car first, and that he'll drive over afterward.

It's late in the evening when he finally does arrive, and he looks half dead. He's definitely still hung-over. "You know," I start, "you're lucky I'm the one hiring you. If this was any other person, it'd be a pretty bad first impression. You're looking quite sour and lethargic."

"I spent the better part of the morning looking through the classified section of the newspaper," he says bitterly. "There are literally no job offers in this crap-town. This really is my only option. I don't have to be happy about it."

I smirk. "What did you spend the other part of the morning doing?"

"I spent it hunched over the toilet," he admits tartly.

"Rough," I sympathize, sitting up from my desk. "Kahl, why did you drop out of university?"

"I didn't like it," he shrugs.

"Elaborate."

He lets out a sigh, glancing away. "I used to think that I needed to validate my existence… You know how I was. I had somewhat of an existential crisis after an overindulgence of philosophy textbooks. Anyway, I had thought that the only thing that validated my existence was the fact that I am smart, so I decided that I would put my mind to use."

"What happened?" I ask.

"I figured out that I didn't need to validate my existence," he says simply. "No one does, and to think the opposite was stupid."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. It was a bit of an epiphany."

"Hm," I say. "Interesting…"

I move towards my filing cabinet.

"What's in there?" he asks.

I smile, holding up a piece of paper. "You sign this, and I won't be able to fire you without reason."

"What?"

"You were worried I'd fire you, were you not? As long as you follow all of my orders, you're safe."

"All of your orders?" he frowns.

"Yes," I nod.

"Fine… and what's the next catch?" he asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

"You won't be able to quit, either."

Frowning, he murmurs, "Of course it would be something like that."

I just give him my best business-like smile and hand the paper to him to sign.

He begins to read it.

If Kyle signs his name at the bottom of the page, he's mine.

And the funny thing is, he doesn't have any idea what he's getting himself into. He's probably assuming I'll boss him around a bit, but I have so, so, so much more in mind.

"All right," I hear him say as he stands up and approaches my desk. "Can I take this home and think about it a little?"

"I suppose so," I say, trying not to sound irritated. He probably wants to take his sweet time checking it out. Probably to make sure there's nothing "weird" on it. Hell, I make no mistakes. I hired someone to write that contract up for me. Even a genius like Kyle won't be able to find a mistake in it.

"Why do you want me to do this, anyway?" he asks.

"You're perfect for the job."

"How so?"

"You have good time management skills, you have good communication skills, and you're good with technology. Though you only did four years of business school, I'm sure you have sufficient knowledge on how to write reports and do research."

"Of course."

"Excellent," I say. "You'll also be doing the secretarial work, like answering phone calls."

"Okay."

"Assuming you take the job, your office is downstairs."

"Okay," he repeats.

"On Wednesday I have a meeting with the city council," I say. "I'll need you to come, so you should have the paper signed before then."

"Okay."

"Is that all you're going to say?" I ask.

"It's just…" he shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. This isn't professional of me."

"Don't worry about that," I force out, politely. "I'd prefer it if you didn't look at this as overly formal. We were once friends, after all."

"If you say so…"

"I say so," I tell him before shooing him out of my office.

I'm surprised Kyle is being so cooperative. He really is a different person when he's sober.

I almost miss the fire.

Well, it'll be back soon enough. Now that I've got him on a hook, I'll be reeling him in.

Things are about to get very interesting. I know it won't end well, but until then, I'm going to enjoy it.

* * *

On Tuesday, he shows up at my office again, looking incredibly rigid.

"Here," he says, handing me the paper.

I give it a once-over, spotting his written signature at the bottom. "Great," I say, moving towards the filing cabinet and locking the paper safely away.

He's frowning and looking incredibly defensive as he crosses his arms.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says simply.

"All right," I wave him off. "You can go check out your desk and get settled. I'll come fetch you in a couple hours. We'll do lunch, my treat, and then discuss the finer details."

He nods once before exiting the room.

I can't force away the smile that creeps on my lips.

* * *

Later in the evening, I get Kyle and we go to Café Monet. Kyle orders a salad and picks at it for five minutes before finally taking a bite.

I watch with interest and he doesn't seem to notice me staring.

"I haven't been here in a long time," he says offhandedly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I watch as he eats, taking those annoyingly small bites as if he's self-conscious or something. I want to roll my eyes, but I refrain.

"I still think it's strange that you're being so civil," he comments.

"Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I've just grown up?" I ask.

"Because you were such an asshole," he says tersely.

I chuckle. "Harsh words, Kahl."

"It's true."

"You do realize that you're no bowl of ice cream either."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, scowling.

"It means you aren't as sweet at everyone thinks you are. You're highly unpleasant to be around. A few nights ago I had assumed it was solely because you were drunk, but I can see now that it doesn't matter whether or not you're sober or have been drinking. You're a selfish little brat."

"Cartman, you –" he angrily begins, but I cut him off.

"Ah, ah" I interrupt. "You might want to try being nice to the man who writes your paychecks," I say, leaning forward and giving him a less than genuine smile.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, not saying another word. I guess patience really does pay off… However, I knew it would.

Whether a brothel or a church's confession box, it doesn't matter. Whether you're fucking or fucking up, it still doesn't matter. People aren't good for selfless reasons. People are only nice when they want something.

I'm no different.

That's why I am where I am.

That's why I'm the fucking mayor of this shitty town.

I'm going to get what I want.


	3. KB: A kiss

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

Strangely enough, it has been quite easy working for Cartman thus far. He hasn't given me any strange requests. The most irritating thing he has me do is fetch his coffee. But it's tolerable. The town council meeting went by and Kenny finds it amusing that I'm not complaining more about the circumstances of my new job. I suppose I'm a bit amused, too. I'm beginning to think that maybe it _is_ possible for people to change. Maybe Cartman really has changed for the better. I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt just this once. Perhaps I'm the immature one for believing him to still be the child he was, and perhaps I'm the immature one for not being able to let go of the past and do a little growing up myself.

I yawn, stepping out of the shower and drying off with a towel. From inside the bathroom, I can hear my phone ring. I let out a little sigh before walking into my room to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Kyle."

It's Kenny. "What's up?" I ask.

"Nothing really, I just woke up," he snorts. "Can I come over tonight?"

"Sure," I say. "Any particular reason why, or just a visit?" It may sound rude to ask it, but Kenny knows the drill. If it's something to do with his parents, he'll be here until morning.

We usually end up spooning and by the time I wake up I have to pry myself out of his iron-grip. I don't mind, though. I think he's starving for that simple, non-sexual kind of human contact. He hasn't quite learned that there's a difference between sex and comfort.

"My parents are fighting again," he says unceremoniously, trying not to sound upset about the whole ongoing ordeal. "Drug stuff… It's annoying. I don't want them to ask me to run a deal again. I hate doing that shit."

"Oh," I feel myself frown. "That's fine. You're always welcome here."

"Thanks, Kyle… Really."

"Kenny, you need to get your life together," I say to him over the phone. "By that, I mean move out and get away from them. I know they're your family, but it might be good to be apart from them."

"Ahh, I'm fine," he insists.

"No, you're not fine. You need to sort out your shit."

"Tsk," he clicks his tongue. "Okay, maybe after I jerk off. Bye, Kyle!" He hangs before I can reply that and I find myself rolling my eyes. Typical.

I begin to leaf through my closet and little while later he sends me a text.

KENNY MCCORMICK: _see our boy stan lately?_

YOU: _Yes, I saw him the morning after I got grossly drunk._

KENNY MCCORMICK: _heh howd that go? _

YOU: _It was awkward. He didn't ask, but I know he knew. He didn't really say anything. He was about to leave for work._

Stan is a bit weird about drinking now. He almost lost Wendy due to his drinking problems when he was younger and he vowed off alcohol. He probably doesn't want to end up like his father. He's turning into a family man.

KENNY MCCORMICK: _lame anyway ill see you later on_

YOU: _Bye bye._

I toss my phone onto my bed before getting ready for the day. After putting on a casual suit, I make a light breakfast before leaving.

* * *

Before arriving at city hall, I stop at Harbucks and get Cartman his usual.

"Thank you, Kahl," he says once I arrive.

"Mhm," I mumble, handing him the cup.

"Perfect," he gives a satisfied sigh after taking a sip. "Now, sit down, we have much to attend to."

"Oh?" I ask, taking a seat.

"What would you say about the crime that goes on here in South Park?" he asks. "The citizens seem to want more of a crackdown."

"The crime rate isn't especially high in comparison to, say, Denver… However, our population is much smaller…" I consider, recalling the statistics. "Per capita, I'd still say it's safe to assume we have less crime now."

"Yes," he nods. "That was one of my first feats as mayor. Do you think we have sufficient crime control? Good police? I got a lot of solid cops on the job now. Clyde and Craig, among others."

"Yes…" I say slowly, unsure what he's getting at.

"Yet… They want more," he pauses, looking like he's in thought. "Prostitution and drugs, mainly. Drug arrests are reoccurring."

"They're crimes that don't necessarily harm people," I begin. "I mean, prostitution… Perhaps it can harm a person mentally, and there is always sex related violence… But for the most part, it's a personal choice, the same as drugs. Drug related deaths are at a low."

"Right," he says, urging me to continue.

"And while it is considered a problem, perhaps it would be smart to try and regulate a thing like prostitution?"

"You mean fight to legalize it?"

"Yes."

"Interesting idea," he says, "but I don't think South Park is quite ready for that. They don't want people like Frida walking around."

"You're probably right," I chuckle. "People like to hold sex sacred and keep drugs for medical purposes."

"Exactly."

"So, what are you going to propose at the next meeting?" I ask.

"A crisis hotline or a rehabilitation center, perhaps?" he suggests.

"For addicts of all kinds?"

"Yes," he says. "What would you think about something like that?"

I'm wondering how Cartman truly feels about all this. His mother used to be a prostitute _and_ a drug addict. I assume she no longer has to do that anymore, since Cartman makes quite a living.

"It's a good idea," I nod. "I'm surprised South Park doesn't already have one with all the drug problems. Drugs aren't a recent thing, it's always been bad."

"True…" he pauses. "The McCormicks, do they still have a meth lab?"

"Um, I think so," I shrug, not wanting to betray Kenny's trust. "I'm not sure. It isn't something I talk about in detail with Kenny."

"He still lives with them?"

"Yes."

"He should get out of that shithole."

"That's what I often tell him," I say. "He's coming over tonight to get away from them for a bit."

"That's good," Cartman nods. "I won't keep you for too long today."

"Okay."

"Let's finish up here and I'll treat you to lunch. You didn't bring your car today, right?"

"Right." It was nice enough to walk.

"I'll drop you off at home, too, then."

"Okay…"

He chuckles. "Don't sound so damn suspicious."

"I can't help it," I say. "The Cartman I used to know would cringe at the simple thought of spending money on me."

He just shrugs. "You should be happy you don't need to spend money."

I let out a sigh – there's some of his old humor coming back. Soon enough, he'll be calling me a greedy Jew again.

We make our way to his car. Once again, we drive to Café Monet and once again I order a salad.

"You sure you don't want something a little heavier?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, picking up my fork. I hate when people spend money on me and salad is always an inexpensive option.

* * *

After lunch, Cartman drives me home. "Thank you for dinner," I say awkwardly before opening the door.

"Kahl, wait," he pauses.

"Hm?" I turn around.

He takes a breath, pausing before letting it out.

"What is it?" I frown, confused at his behaviour.

"Ah, fuck it," he says, mostly to himself. "I'm just going to do it."

He leans forward and presses his mouth against mine briefly before drawing back with a sound I'll probably never forget.

"What was that?" I feel my eyes widen in disbelief as I register the sudden action. "What was that?" I repeat the question, raising my shaky voice.

"A _kiss_, Kahl."

"I-I know that!" I feel myself flush as I briefly press the back of my hand to my lips. "Why?!"

"Why do you think?" he asks.

"Y-you…" I pause. "You have feelings for me…?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Oh my fucking God," I say in disbelief. "You do!"

"Yeah," he snorts. "I guess I do."

Now it's my turn to stay silent.

"It's fine," he shrugs. "You don't need to say anything. Hell, you don't even need to do anything… I just didn't have a better way of telling you."

I feel like choking.

"I'm… I'm leaving now," I say numbly, stepping out of the vehicle. "I… I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

When I get home, Kenny is sitting in the hallway outside my apartment. "Aw, dude," I say, trying hard to calm my voice but my heart won't stop beating. "How long have you been here?"

"Only a few minutes, no worries," he grins up at me before standing.

I dig out my keys and unlock the door, immediately going to my room. I take my suit off and put on flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, yawning as I enter the kitchen.

"Tired?" Kenny asks before biting into an apple.

"A bit," I shrug.

"Is Cartman working you hard?" he winks.

"No," I grimace dramatically… I'm probably overcompensating for what just happened. "In all seriousness, it hasn't been that bad…"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Well, I'm glad he isn't giving you a tough time. I guess he really has changed, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe…" I say softly.

We walk into the living room and Kenny's attention is immediately drawn to the room's newest item.

"Oh, man!" he shouts, pointing to the large rubber ball. "What is this thing? It wasn't here last time I was over."

"An exercise ball," I say.

"What does it do?" he asks.

"It's a ball," I snort. "It doesn't _do_ anything."

"Okay, smarty pants," he says dryly. "You know what I mean."

I chuckle. "It helps with the core muscles. Sure, exercising on the floor or another flat surface is fine, but with a ball you need to learn how to balance yourself while exercising simultaneously. It gives you an even better workout."

"What kind of exercises is it used for?"

"Lots," I say. "You can lift weights, do stretches, sit ups, push ups…"

"Is it yours or Stan's?"

"Mine."

"Thought so. I honestly can't really see Stan doing yoga and shit with this thing."

"Me neither," I snort.

"Is this how you maintain that tight little bod?" he wiggles his eyebrows.

I grimace in response.

He takes a seat on the giant ball and immediately rolls backwards off of it.

"Dork," I laugh, taking it from him.

"Show me how it's done, Kyle," he simpers after standing up. "Do some stretches for me."

"No way, perv."

He chuckles as I take a seat on the ball. "When is Stan coming back?" he asks, going into the kitchen briefly to toss out the apple core.

"Not sure," I holler to him.

"Man," Kenny sighs upon his return. "I'm so damn jealous of Stan…"

"Me too, sometimes," I admit.

Stan has a nice girlfriend, a solid job, a pretty straight-laced life. I am single, my job situation is questionable at the best of times, and I drink too much as of late. It's funny how things turned around.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have sex with the person you care about?" he asks, turning to look at me.

"I don't know," I shrug. I've never had sex, so I don't know what the difference would be. "If you care about someone in that way, you should tell them."

"I don't want to cause any grief," he chuckles, trying to make it sound like he doesn't care as much as he does.

"You wouldn't cause him grief."

"Yeah?"

"You'd make him happy."

"Would I?"

"Yeah," I say. "You make everyone happy."

"That's really nice, Kyle," he smiles.

I return the smile.

It's silent again – a comfortable kind of silence. I let out a sigh. "Kenny?"

"Hm?"

"Cartman kissed me."

"Yeah," is all he says.

I give him a weird look. "Why aren't you surprised?" I frown.

"I knew it would happen sooner or later."

"What? How'd you know?" I ask, mildly surprised. Kenny is so otherworldly. I used to envy him for it, back when I was trying to validate my existence. I looked so damn hard for something that made me special and made me worthy. I couldn't think of anything apart from my intellect.

Kenny laughs. "I could tell he wanted you. Ever since we were kids. It was love-hate, but the _love_ part was still there."

I just make a face, wrinkling my nose at the idea. Love? Let's not get too carried away...

"Hm," Kenny pauses. "Well, at least he's not that bad to look at. He grew up all right. He's a pretty handsome dude."

"Okay, stop right there," I snort.

"Kyle," he says my name.

"Hm?"

"He had a weird way of showing it, but he liked you. I guess he still does… but be careful. He's not exactly normal. When it comes to most things, he doesn't have any remorse."

"I always am, Kenny," I say, though it isn't necessarily true.

"Okay."

"Still…" I make a face. "I don't know if I can believe it."

"He's always been a little twisted, he probably just got better at hiding it now."

"Probably."

"But either way, why not try and give it a chance?"

"Because it's Cartman!"

"So?" he shrugs. "That's why you should want to do it."

I wrinkle my nose again.

"You used to be into him, huh?" Kenny asks.

I don't say anything. I don't want to admit it, even to myself. I must be fucking sick for liking a twisted bastard like Eric Cartman. Or maybe I'm just a masochist. The Jew and the Nazi. What a fuckin' story.

"You don't want to get hurt, right?" Kenny continues. "I get that. I don't want you to get hurt either, but… Sick as it all sounds, maybe it'll be a good thing?"

"How?" I ask weakly. "I wish I could just hate him."

"I know."

"Imagine what Stan would think," I force a laugh.

"He'd be sufficiently freaked out and probably mildly repulsed, you know how he is."

"Probably," I snort as I begin rocking back and forth.

"Y'know," he says offhandedly, "this is an oddly erotic sight."

"What?" I laugh.

"You grinding on that ball," he wiggles his eyebrows.

"Kenny, you're so retarded," I snort.

And just like that, he turns a serious conversation into a joke, once again playing it off like it's not a big deal. He likes to pretend he's not as miserable as he is. I think he assumes I don't catch onto it, but I do.


	4. KB: Date night

**South Park © Matt & Trey. **

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

Last night, I heard Stan come home and I immediately felt Kenny jump out of bed. I tried not to listen to their conversation, but I couldn't help overhearing most of it.

"Kenny," I heard Stan greet. "What's up, dude? Long-time no see."

"Not much," Kenny replied. "Kyle just fell asleep."

"Oh. Is he drunk?" Tsk, the disappointed tone in his voice was almost enough to make me follow Kenny out there and tell Stan to get rid of that superiority complex.

"No?" Kenny said, voicing the word like a question.

"Cartman brought him home a little while ago and said he was drunk. I thought it was really odd… Since when does Cartman hang around Kyle?"

"Oh, yeah," a chuckle. "I arranged that."

"And Kyle was okay with it?" Stan sounded amused.

"Not at all," Kenny admitted, "but now he's working for Eric, so it can't be all bad."

"What?" Stan asked. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"No. He lost his job at the library and Eric came to the rescue." Awesome, Kenny. Keep telling the fucking world.

"Wow," Stan deadpanned.

"I know, right?" another chuckle.

"Was he drinking on the job or something?" The tone was joking, but I could tell the question was genuine. What an asshole.

Kenny snorted, "No, dude."

"How… How's he doing?" he asked slowly.

"Eric?"

"No, Kyle."

"He's okay," Kenny replied. "He misses you, though. He doesn't say it, but I can tell."

"Yeah," he murmured.

"You miss him too, right?"

"Yeah," he repeated.

"Why don't you come home more often?" Kenny asked. "I mean… I get that you have a girlfriend but you always have time for your best friend. Manage your time… You don't need to spend every waking second with Wendy. Kyle is going to get sick of this empty house soon enough and you won't have this place to return to."

"I know," he says softly. "But someday I'm gonna marry Wendy. She needs to know how important she is."

"I'm sure she does."

"Hey, Kenny?"

"Hm?"

"Why does he drink so much?" Stan asked.

"He doesn't like being alone." How fucking embarrassing to have Kenny come out and say it like that.

"Oh."

"Yeah… Anyway, I'm going to sleep. I just thought I'd say hey to you, since I never see you anymore," he said in a somewhat accusing tone.

"Sorry," Stan laughed. "Where are you sleeping? Sofa?"

"No, Kyle is letting me sleep in his bed with him," Kenny said perversely, and I had to roll my eyes at that.

"Oh," Stan sounded humored. "Don't do anything naughty."

"Oh, I _will_," Kenny joked.

He was back in my bed moments later, and I pretended I was asleep again.

That short conversation still has me feeling incredible miserable and humiliated, though I'll try not to think about it for now. I can't afford to slip up under Cartman's watch. I am now on my way to city hall and I am dreading it. I can feel my heart beating throughout every inch of my body and I'm shaking. I don't know what to say to Cartman and I'm fucking scared. When I walk into his office, he greets my typically, as if he never pulled the moves on me in the car the other day.

"Good morning, Kahl," he says as I hand him his coffee.

"Good morning," I reply mechanically.

He continues to read some documents that are spread out in front of him on his desk. An awkward silence settles as I begin to fidget with my hands.

"Kahl," he lets out a sigh, pausing and looking up at me. He begins to clear the things off of his desk. "Say what you want to say, I can't concentrate with you hovering like that."

"I don't know what to say," I admit weakly. I've given it a lot of thought, and I am almost positive that I would regret a relationship with Cartman… yet…

He puts his pen down and stands up, walking around the desk and standing in front of me. "What did you feel?" he asks.

"I don't know…" I say again, feeling meek as I stare up at him. I glance away, letting out a sigh.

He snorts. "Okay, Kahl. It's nothing you need to stress yourself out over."

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly before looking back up at him. "Try it again," I say.

Maybe Kenny was right when he said I was lonely, and maybe that's a reason why I'm so willing to try this.

"Try what?"

"Kiss me."

He doesn't hesitate. He cups my face in his hands before leaning down and planting one on me. So, here I am, kissing Eric fucking Cartman… and you know what? It's not so bad.

I'd like to just forget all about the things I felt for him when I was a child, but I can tell now that it isn't going to be that simple.

"You know," I murmur, "I used to love you."

He looks surprised. Then again, I'm surprised to. I'm surprised I was able to get the words out and admit it out loud when I could hardly admit it to myself.

"You're seriously?" he asks in a tone that shows interest.

"Yeah." Yeah, I'm _seriously_.

"Do you still?"

"I don't know."

Sometimes I think I love him still, but I wouldn't dare say that. I feel like once I got the words out he would just laugh and ask me why a smart guy like me is throwing around such a big word. He'd probably throw it back in my face.

* * *

"Let me take you out tonight," he requested mere hours ago.

"Out?" I asked.

"Like a date."

"All right," I said.

"Dress up nice," he winked.

So I went home and I put on a nice suit and a nice tie and Cartman picked me up. We are now currently sitting in the nicest restaurant in South Park and I feel incredibly self-conscious. "Isn't this place, like, really expensive?" I ask, scanning the room nervously.

"Yeah," he shrugs, "but I'm the mayor. I can afford it."

"Oh," I frown. "At least let me pay for half."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Because I'm taking you out," he states.

"So?" I tilt my head to the side.

"Why don't you like people paying for you?" he asks, offhandedly mumbling, "Jesus Christ."

"I don't know," I admit, feeling uncomfortable.

When the waiter comes, Cartman orders steak and I order a salad.

"Kahl," he deadpans, "Order something else."

"Why?" I ask softly.

"Why is it always a salad?"

I puff up my cheeks, frustrated as Cartman orders me an expensive pasta dish instead.

"Don't worry about the price," he insists after the waiter walks off.

I let out a sigh.

"Carbs aren't going to kill you," he says, rolling his eyes at me.

"I know…"

"Why does it bother you so much?" he asks.

"I really don't know," I shrug. "I just hate people spending money on me."

"Because…?"

"Because I don't know," I repeat, growing irritated.

"Do you have self-esteem issues or something?" he snorts. "You feel like you're not worth money spent?"

"I don't know," I say for what feels like the millionth time.

"Okay," he relents, holding up his hands innocently.

I take a breath. I want to believe that he's faking, but he seems so damn genuine… He's either a really good actor, or he _is_ being genuine. I'd like to believe it's the latter. "Hey," I start, "why were you so awful to me when we were kids?"

"I knew that question was coming," he laughs. "I suppose I was overcompensating. I tried too hard to deny the way I felt."

"Really…" I say softly.

"Really."

"I guess that isn't so hard to believe," I admit. Sure, it's a possibility, though I'm still not sure it's the truth. "Are you sure you're not just psychotic?"

"I'm sure." He gives another little chuckle. "Honestly, Kahl," he starts, "how do you feel about yourself?"

"Why?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I want to know."

"But why?"

"Because I want to know about you."

I sigh, looking to the side. "I don't know why, but I just don't have any self-confidence. Maybe that's why I chose a job as a librarian. It was quiet; people didn't pay attention to me."

"Hm," Cartman considers. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"I don't know… Do I?" I ask suspiciously.

"I think it was your family."

I wrinkle my nose, half expecting him to start calling my mother a bitch but he doesn't.

"They had a lot of expectations for you, right?" he continues.

"Yes…"

"They expected a lot from you – too much. In the long run, you probably felt like you couldn't live up to them," he says simply.

I frown. I've never thought about it like that before. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," I whisper. He hit the nail perfectly.

"Okay," he shrugs. Our food comes moments later and I mindlessly pick at it before taking a bite. "How is it?" he asks.

"Good," I say, "thank you…"

* * *

After dinner, he invites me over. I decline. "I'm not having sex on the first date," I say, crossing my arms.

He chuckles, "Not what I had in mind. Don't worry, Kahl."

"Then what do you have in mind?" I ask.

"I'll show you around my house," he says. "You haven't seen it yet. Then we'd chat and maybe crack open a bottle of wine."

"Oh."

"I want to get to know you again," he continues. "I want to see how you've changed over the years. Sound okay?"

"Yes," I admit. "That sounds fine…"

Of course, Cartman's house is huge. It reminds me of when we were young, and he'd insist that someday he would make it big. We all laughed, but now look at him. He's doing better than any of us. "It's big…" I say after we get out of the car, though it pains me to admit it aloud.

"I guess it is."

Once we step inside, the house feels even bigger. "Wow," I murmur.

He just chuckles and begins to show me around. Everything is so perfect… It feels like I'm walking around in one of those show homes. The basement is furnished – a lounge with a flat screen television. The main floor has a large kitchen, a dining room and a small living room. The top floor is where his bedroom is… "I don't want to go in there," I say stupidly. God damn, I'm immature and I keep making a moron out of myself.

"Kahl," he deadpans, opening the door. "I'm not going to try anything. Jesus Christ."

"That didn't stop you before," I say tersely, recalling what happened in the car the other day.

He doesn't answer. He just chuckles again, as if the whole fucking thing is some sort of joke to him.

The bedroom is nice and simple. There is a large bed in the center with red sheets and the drapes match. It all matches and it's all so fucking perfect… It makes the place I live in look like total shit. "It's nice…" I comment.

He just smiles, probably sensing that I'm uncomfortable because he shuts the door and gestures for me to follow him back downstairs. "Red wine or white?" he hollers from the kitchen. I'm scared to even touch the furniture. I don't want to mess anything up and have him throw a tantrum.

"Red," I yell back, glancing around the room.

There are pictures on the mantel above the fireplace. I wander towards them. They look like family photos. Many are of him and his mother. There's one of him and city council, too…

"Heh," Cartman chuckles when he walks back into the room. "Doesn't my mom look happier?"

"Yeah," I say, turning around.

"It's no secret what she used to do," he says, handing me a full wine glass. "But she doesn't have to anymore. She took care of me, and now I'm taking care of her."

"That's really nice, Cartman," I say sincerely.

"I'm a nice guy."

"You know," I state, "the guys who say that are usually the ones who are the biggest jerks."

He laughs loudly, and there is something in his eyes that I can't quite place. "Yeah, I suppose that's true."

"Why are you pretending to be nice to me?" I ask, cursing myself for the desperate tone of voice. I don't want to find out that I'm being played with.

"What do you mean?"

I just shake my head. "Never mind."

He lets out a long sigh. "You have some issues you need to work out with yourself."

"I know," I admit.

* * *

As the night continues, I can tell that I'll be welcoming another fierce hangover tomorrow.

"You are such a lush," he snorts as I finish my third glass.

I just laugh.

"Why do you drink so damn much?" he asks. "I thought that was Stan's job."

"Stan quit because Wendy made him," I say carelessly as he pours me another glass. "He's boring now."

"Ah," he nods. "So, what's the reason you drink?"

"I don't know," I shrug, not wanting to get into it. "Makes things easier, I guess."

"It makes what easier?"

"Being around people," I explain before letting out a little laugh. "I think I have some minor social anxiety."

"But you're good with people."

"Because I try so damn hard…" It's probably true. I hate crowds, they make me horribly uncomfortable, and there are times when I feel like all eyes are on me – but not in a flattering way.

"It probably comes from your lack of self-confidence," he comments.

"Probably," I mumble, taking a long sip of the drink he just poured me. Maybe I'm an idiot, but it feels so easy being with him like this and I know it's not just the alcohol because I've felt it all night. I still love him, even though I know this won't end well. I guess I really am a masochist. God, I really am sick. I must hate myself.


	5. KB: Virginity

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

"Honestly, part of me can't fucking believe you're really seeing Cartman," Kenny laughs the following day. "You're so stubborn, I thought you'd reject him just to prove a point."

"Yeah, well, I'm just as surprised as you are," I snort.

"So, how's the hangover?" he asks.

"Eehh…" I groan.

"I see," he smirks. "Did he get you liquored up so he could fuck yah?"

"Tsk!" I click my tongue. "No, don't be so crude. I'd never let _that_ happen."

"You trust him, then?"

"Hm… I suppose I do, to an extent." I wonder when that happened?

"That's good," Kenny smiles.

I return the smile. "So, how are you doing?" I ask. "And be honest."

"Honestly, I'm doing all right," he shrugs.

"Have you died at all lately?"

"Nah. I don't die as much as I used to. It's almost as if Death lost interest in me."

"Yeah… that's probably a good thing."

No one knows if Kenny truly _does_ die. We just go along with it because there isn't anything else we can do. Sometimes I think he's just plain crazy. Sometimes I doubt him, but then I scold myself for it because he's such a good person. He's not the type to lie. I guess it's fine as long as he doesn't go around talking about it. That'd just get him a room in the nut house.

He shrugs, smiling slightly. "I don't mind physical pain. It was something I got used to, and I know there is pain far worse than that."

"Yeah," I say again, frowning. "Do you think you'll confess to Butters sometime?"

"Nah."

"Why?" I ask.

He just shrugs again.

"Why do you like Butters?" I ask. "I mean… I know he's a nice guy and all, but most people hate him." To be honest, I'm not especially fond of him either.

Kenny chuckles. "No one really cared about me when I was a child. My parents were usually too high to remember they had kids, and my friends often forgot about me… Not that I really blame any of you guys, I almost preferred it. I honestly didn't really mind it, but it would have been nice to be noticed once in a while, especially when I needed a little comfort. I think that's what makes Butters so damn special. He always noticed me. He respected me when no one else did. He told me I was worth something when everyone else thought I was just another white trash kid, something to be used and abused. He showed me I was more than what people assumed I was. I often felt like shit, but being around him made me feel a little lighter. I suppose, even now, it makes me feel a little lighter. There's just something about him, you know? He makes me feel better about myself. I wish I could provide him with a little happiness, too."

"Yeah…"

"He showed me that I don't want to live life dying, I also want to live life… well, living. You know?"

"Yeah," I repeat softly. "I know."

He just smiles.

"I'm sorry, Kenny," I continue. I'm guilty of being one of the people who didn't give him the love he needed when he was a kid and it's probably partially why he's so damn self-destructive… Then again, who the hell am I to talk?

He shakes his head. "It's fine, dude."

It's not, but I know Kenny won't ever let me make it up to him.

"So, how are things with Eric?" he asks.

I simply shrug.

"Did you guys do the dirty yet?" he wiggles his eyebrows.

"Of course you would ask that," I murmur.

He just chuckles. "So…?"

"No, we haven't."

"Do you think you'd be ready?"

"I don't know," I say. I guess time will tell.

"Well, be careful," he warns. "Sex can be fun… but it can also be fucking terrifying when you're already halfway to a screw and you realize you don't want to be there."

"I know," I say softly, even though I don't. I can hardly even fathom it.

"Anyway," he shrugs. "Just… make sure you're ready. Though, if Eric cares about you, even a little, he'll be willing to stop if you ask."

"Yeah," I say, though I'm not so sure. It is Eric Cartman, after all.

"He'd be your first, right?"

I nod.

"Why haven't you experimented at all?" Kenny asks. "I mean… high school was one thing, but in university isn't that what most kids do? They sleep around a lot, party a lot…"

"I was quite boring in university," I admit. "I turned down party invitations and rejected anyone who asked me out."

"Why?"

"I don't know… I guess the thought of dating someone I was so unfamiliar with was unsettling."

"Hm," Kenny muses. "I guess I can understand that. It's like… you don't know what to expect from them, right?"

"Above other things," I nod. Honestly, it doesn't matter either way. I don't know what to expect from Cartman either.

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm horrendous looking," I admit, "especially my nose."

"Your nose is perfectly fine," Kenny says. "It suits you."

"It's too big," I frown, rubbing it.

"It's _perfect_," Kenny reiterates.

"Cartman once said people used to make fun of me for it in school."

"So, what?" Kenny shrugs. "Cartman is the kind of guy who will make things up and forget it isn't real. When he starts to believe something, there's no point in convincing him of otherwise."

"I guess that's true," I snort.

* * *

At work the following day, Cartman greets me with an amused expression. "The other night was fun, wasn't it?" he asks after I arrive at his office.

"Hm," I mumble.

"Were you hungover?"

"No," I lie.

"Be honest."

I let out a sigh. "Yes."

He laughs. "Did you puke?"

"No."

"Be honest."

"I really didn't."

"Well, that's good," he says. "We should get together again tonight."

"Maybe," I consider.

"You have other plans?"

"Well, no…"

"Then it's a date," he smirks.

I simply sigh. We haven't been dating for long, but I know relationships often move faster when you're an adult. He'll probably expect me to spread my ass for him soon enough. I don't know how that will go over. Porn can only teach a person so much and I am horribly inexperienced. I wonder what he expects of me… because I'm definitely not a porn star and I know that getting a dick up the ass is hardly like a fucking slip and slide. I've at least learned that much.

"Calm down, Kahl," Cartman chuckles. "I can feel your anxiety."

"… Sorry."

"What are you worrying about?"

"Nothing, nothing," I dismiss.

* * *

It's almost 10 PM now and I think Cartman is probably trying to get me liquored up.

"You sober?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Just making sure," he chuckles.

Though, I do feel a bit calmer about all this and the possibility of where the night may lead.

"Hey, Kahl?"

"Hm?"

"Want to go upstairs?" he asks.

"Sure, let's go," I say.

Once we're upstairs, Cartman doesn't hesitate getting me undressed once I give him the go ahead and now I'm shy and naked and thoroughly uncomfortable as I lay down on his bed. Without all his clothing, it's even harder to imagine he was that obese little kid I used to fight with. Now he truly isn't fat – he _is_ buff. Ironic… he was always going on about how he would have money, and he was vain without reason… Now I guess he has all he ever wanted. Karma must really be a lie.

I don't think I'd be a match for him. On top of his broadness, he's also a head taller than me. If he wanted to, he could easily hurt me… I suddenly feel stuffy and warm and it's hard to breathe.

"Wait…" I murmur.

"Hm?" he asks, looking down at me.

"Wait!" I say a little more frantically.

He lets out an impatient groan, but pauses nonetheless. "What is it?"

"I'm… It's…" I press my lips together, shaking my head. Oh, what I'd give to be anywhere but here right now.

"Kahl," he says my name, "are you still a virgin?"

"What?" I deadpan.

He snorts.

"It's none of your business," I say, feeling a flush spread across my face.

"Yeah, it kind of is," he snorts. "I mean… look at us."

I don't say anything.

"Okay, I'm going to take a wild guess and say you're not, but it's been a while so you're nervous."

"Oh?"

"You spend a lot of time with Kenny, right?" he smirks. "I'm sure he's propositioned you a few times."

I huff, somewhat embarrassed that I'm having this conversation with Eric Cartman, and even more embarrassed about the fact that I'm also naked beneath him as we have it.

Say what you want about Kenny, but he'd never fuck around with someone like that. He is a good person. Sure, we're a little closer than most male friends, but in the end I think we both just want someone to hold.

"You've never dated before now, correct?" Cartman asks.

"So what?" I ask weakly.

"Is no one good enough for you, Kyle?" he asks, and I can't tell whether or not he's joking.

"I never said that…"

"So, are you a virgin?" he asks again.

"Yes," I admit.

He leans forward so our faces are mere inches apart.

"What?" I frown. .

"Relax," he says softly.

"I am."

"No, you're not. I can feel you tensing up… if you don't relax it's going to hurt even worse."

"I can't help it."

"Just… calm down," he says. "Take a deep breath and release."

I close my eyes and do what he tells me to. "Okay, go," I tell him, moments later, still not opening my eyes.

As I feel him push inside of me, it hurts… Hell, that's an understatement. It's like I'm being stretched too much and it burns. My grip on his shoulders tightens and he asks –

"You good?"

"Yeah…" I whisper.

He's slow. Careful. I find that surprising and unexpected. He gets me off before finishing inside of me. I find that surprising, too. I guess his bed behaviour isn't selfish like I thought it would be. Kenny would probably find that amusing. When it's all said and done and we're all cleaned up, we just lay side by side on his king-sized bed. My body still feels warm and I want to cover myself up but I don't. I just stay quiet, and so does he. The only sound in the room is the sound of our breathing.

"Did it hurt much?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"No."

"Tell the truth," he says.

"Yeah, it hurt," I tell him. "I'm scared I won't be able to walk right."

He just snorts. "That's normal."

"Is it..."

"Yeah." He shifts onto his side and I can feel him staring at me, but I don't stare back. I just look up at the ceiling and try to steady my breathing and calm my rapid heartbeat.

"Are you embarrassed?" he asks. "And don't bother trying to lie. I can tell."

"I am… I don't know why."

"Well… virginity is never fun. It's usually pretty awkward, but I think you did totally fine. If you didn't tell me to wait up I probably wouldn't have wondered whether or not you were a virgin."

"Oh."

"Don't worry about it," he insists. He places a hand on my stomach and rubs his hand up and down it lightly.

"Okay."

"You all right?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I say again. I force a small smile as proof.

* * *

When I return home later on in the night, I allow my tired body to flop onto my mattress. I don't even bother changing; I just clutch the pillow to my chest. Things sure escalated quickly.


	6. EC: Old habits die hard

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Lots of Kyman stories start out with the volatile relationship, and then it turns cute. Mine kind of goes the opposite way. Brutal chapter, so beware. **

**Eric's POV**

* * *

Kyle still has a nice body. He's grown since our teenage years, but I can tell he's always hated the way he looks. I probably didn't help his esteem grow when we were kids with my constant taunts about his religious beliefs and his hair and his nose… I wouldn't admit it, but I like all those things about him and either way, it was fucking perfect – way better than I imagined it being. I didn't think that I'd actually be able to get him in bed that easily. I always knew he'd be vocal, but hearing him with my own ears was even sweeter. The real thing was much better than any perverted dream I've had about the Jew.

There was a look of concentration on his face as he stared blankly towards the ceiling. I was in control. He was vulnerable and I had absolute control over him. Everything worked out exactly the way it should have.

Kyle was a virgin. I was his first… Now I'll always be inside of him. No matter where we are five years from now, or even ten years from now… he will always remember me and what we did. You always remember your first, right?

"Kahl?" I say his name the following day as he's reading over paperwork in my office.

"Hm?" he mumbles, sitting onto the sofa as he continues to read.

"Do you love me?"

"Why?"

"I want to know."

"I suppose I do," he admits, still looking down at the papers.

I feel myself smirk. How fuckin' cute. I get up and settle down next to him on the sofa, throwing my arm around him. "You know," I say, "you've been to my place, but you still haven't asked me over to yours."

"You've been to my place before."

"Yeah, only to make sure you didn't drown in your own vomit. I'd hardly call that a date."

He makes a face at the mention of his drunkenness.

"Fine," he relents. "You can come over tonight."

Fuckin' sweet.

* * *

Around 8:00 PM I arrive at his place. He opens the door, crossing his arms. "Hi."

"Don't look so damn sour all the time," I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

"I can't help it."

I lean forward and peck him on the lips. "What's on the agenda?" I ask, following him into the living room.

"Whatever you want," he shrugs. "There isn't much to do here."

"That's okay."

"Do you want anything to drink?" he offers.

"What do you have?"

"Water, milk," he pauses, "Vodka, rum, gin, whisky…"

I let out a chuckle. Fucking liquor pig. "Whisky for me," I say and he nods before leaving the room.

Unceremoniously, I flop onto the sofa and wait for him to return with my drink. I find myself looking around the room. I hadn't really paid attention to anything last time I was here. I was too preoccupied with thoughts of where that night was going to lead in the long run. I have no regrets.

On the wall next to the television, there is an arrangement of photographs hanging – Broflovski family portrait, Marsh family portrait… Pretty standard stuff. There are also photos of Kyle and Stan together, as well as a few with Kenny and a few with Wendy. I'm even in one of them. It's a really old photograph, from when we were all ten. We're all grinning stupidly at the camera with arms around one another.

Kyle returns a few minutes later holding two drinks. He hands me one before sitting down next to me with a little more grace than I exhibited.

"What're you drinking?" I ask as he takes a sip of his own drink.

"Vodka," he tells me.

"You know, you're a lush and a lightweight," I comment, "and that can be quite the toxic combination."

"Suck my dick, Cartman," he scoffs, taking another drink.

"Yeah?" I snort. "I bet you'd like that."

He flushes, giving me an angry look.

God damn, I love it when he drinks. I'm _so_ seriously. It's never a dull moment. "Hey, since we're together, you shouldn't keep calling me by my last name," I say. "What if we got married?"

"Like I'd take your last name."

"Well, there's no way in hell I'm taking yours," I laugh, somewhat surprised he isn't a hundred percent against the idea. Either way, I wouldn't want him to take my last name. I don't want a thing about him to change. "Eric Broflovski? What a laugh."

"Nazi," he says. "Kyle Cartman sounds worse."

I just smirk.

"Eric," he mumbles, somewhat to himself.

"Hm?"

"I'm just seeing how the name feels."

"Oh," I chuckle.

"Eric…" he says my name again. I like it. I like the way it sounds when he says it. I don't think I've ever heard him say my first name before. "Okay," he starts. "I'll call you that from now on… Or, I'll try. Some old habits die hard."

"Trust me, I know."

He rolls his eyes, going into the kitchen to refill is now empty glass. When he doesn't come back in a few minutes, I walk into the kitchen to see what's taking him so long and I want to laugh out loud when I spot him drinking straight from the damn bottle.

"Kahl," I say, "what the fuck are you doing?"

"Nothin'," he insists.

"I think you have a drinking problem," I tell him. "I don't want you destroying your fucking liver and shit. Don't you have a weak immune system? What exactly is drinking going to do to help that? You know, I gave you a kidney and I don't want it going to waste. I don't think you should be fucking around with your insides."

"Uh, shut the fuck up," he says evenly.

"Come on," I say, grabbing his wrist and bringing him back into the living room. I sit back down on the sofa and sit him down on my lap, wrapping my arms around his mid-section.

"Now," I start, "let's talk."

"About?" he asks, blinking and feigning naivety.

Hell, he looks… weirdly cute. "Come on, Jew," I say impatiently and I hear him let out a laugh as he leans into me.

"_Jew_," he repeats. "I was wondering when you were going to start calling me that again."

Ah, fuck. I slipped up. "Well… like I said, old habits die hard."

He just shakes his head at me, but he's smiling nonetheless so I guess he's not too mad. "Oddly… the familiarity is comforting," he says. "I could tell you've been trying not to say it, but… I don't mind."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah…" he shrugs. "This polished up Eric Cartman… I'm not too sure about him. Seems too good to be true."

"Oh, yeah?" I chuckle.

"Yeah," he says in a playful tone.

"Hey," I start, "So, why were you in there chugging straight liquor like you're life depended on it?" Yeah, I like it when he drinks… but I don't want to have to clean up no mess. If he takes it too far, I know that's where the night will lead.

He lets out a sigh before laughing, "I'm nervous."

"Nervous?"

"I'm always nervous about something," he frowns, mumbling the words.

"That sucks."

"Too put it lightly, yeah," he murmurs, staring at me.

"So, what are you nervous about right now?" I ask.

He lets out another little laugh, rubbing his hand down his face. "I'm worried I'll be too awkward."

I shrug a lazy shoulder, "Who cares if you are? Not me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I snort. "On a scale of one to ten how drunk are you now?"

"I don't know… a six?" he says, but I have a feeling he's a little drunker than that because he's slurring his words.

"So," I start, "Does that mean I can do this and you won't go immediately rigid?"

"Do what?"

I lean forward and press my lips to his slowly before drawing back. He stares at me for a brief moment before shifting closer. "I still find it kinda weird," he admits, "but not in a bad way."

"Fair enough, I'll take it," I chuckle, closing the gap once again.

For someone with little to no sexual or romantic experience, Kyle ain't a bad kisser. In fact, he's pretty good. Things are going perfectly smooth until a new voice interrupts everything –

"_Oh, my God!" _

Kyle immediately pushes me away and stands up, staring wide-eyed at none other than Stan fucking Marsh.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?" he chokes out, looking just as wide-eyed as Kyle.

"I…" Kyle trails off, giving me a helpless look. "Shit!"

"We're together, Marsh," I say dryly, angry that he just cock-blocked me.

His eyes widen even more and his jaw drops. "What?" he gapes.

I sigh, losing patience. "We're together," I repeat. "That means he lets me stick it up his ass and I get to see him have squirmy little orgasms."

"Eric!" Kyle snaps, backing away and stumbling slightly.

"Since when does he call you by your first name? And is he fucking drunk?" Stan asks me, ignoring Kyle's presence altogether.

"Isn't it obvious?" I snort.

"Hey, asshole!" Kyle yells, pointing at Stan, "Dun talk about me like I'm not even here!"

Stan looks taken aback by the loud accusation. "I didn't…" he pauses. "I didn't mean anything by it…"

"You always do shit like this!" Kyle continues, slurring every damn word in that high pitched, drunk voice of his. "God, I'm getting so sick of you coming and going as you please and then acting like you're so much better than me! You're not better than me!"

"Kyle –" Stan tries, but Kyle cuts him off.

"No!" he yells, waving his arms around. "I'm mad at you! I've been mad at you for a while you've just never been 'round for me to let you know it! I heard you talking to Kenny a while back about me. You thought I was asleep, but I heard every fuckin' word, so don't bother trying to deny how you really feel about me!"

"Kyle, shut up for one fucking second!" Stan yells back.

And Kyle does. It's like he needs you to get angry at him for anything to register.

Stan runs his hands down his face, sighing. "Christ…" he murmurs. "Look… Maybe I should just move out."

"Do whatever you want," Kyle says tartly. "I don't give a damn."

And I know that's a lie. Stan probably knows it, too.

"I'm… I'll go spend the night at Wendy's again… I'll give you time to cool down," he mumbles.

Kyle crosses his arms defensively. "Wow, I'm surprised," he says cruelly, "I didn't expect you to come back home t'night in the first place."

"I was going to see if you wanted to hang out… but clearly, you have plans," he glances over at me. "I'll see you later, Kyle."

Stan leaves without another word and Kyle's angry expression doesn't leave his face.

"Kyle?" I say his name. "You good?"

"God!" Kyle hisses, stomping into the kitchen and getting out a shot glass. "I'm so fucking sick of that asshole."

"You sure you want to drink more?" I ask. "You're already pretty wasted. I don't think you would've said any of that shit to your super best butt buddy if you were sober."

"It doesn't matter because I'm always thinking it," Kyle murmurs. "So, now all my thoughts are out in the open."

I shrug. "All right, do what you want."

He pours himself a tall shot and downs it with surprising ease before doing it one more time.

"Christ, look at you go," I laugh.

"Ugh," he moans, leaning against the counter. "Stan's sooo stupid…" he slurs, and I can barely understand what he's saying. "He's a stooopid asshole."

"Sure, Kahl."

I take the bottle of alcohol away from him before tries to reach for it, putting it away. I don't want him passing out before we can have some fun.

He sinks onto the floor and half laughing and half sobbing. What a fucking mess he is and it's not even my fault. I guess something got in the way before I was given the chance to fuck him up. "Come on, Kahl," I say. "Let's go back into the living room and you can vent about Stan all you want."

I'm already turned on as he stumbles into the room towards the sofa I'm now seated on. "Ugh," he groans again, falling onto his knees and lying on the floor.

"Stan is stupid…" he says again.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Thinks he's so much better than me…" he mumbles.

"Yeah, he's a dick," I add. "He's always been like that. He's Mr. Morality."

Kyle rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"Ah ah, Kahl," I say, shaking my finger at him.

"What?" he murmurs.

"You can't sleep yet," I tell him. "I'm going to fuck you first."

"Fuck me?" he slurs drunkenly. "I dun… I don't want to…"

"Kahl," I say sweetly. "I don't care what you want, now get undressed."

He lets out a sound of frustration as he struggles to sit up.

"God, you're a mess," I say, standing up and kneeling down beside him. I force him up into a sitting position and take his sweatshirt off. He immediately falls backwards again.

"Tsk," I click my tongue, the bulge in my pants growing extremely uncomfortable. "Lift your hips."

When he does, I pull his jeans down along with his shorts and toss them both to the side along with his sweatshirt. Once he's bare, I stare down at him and admire the state he's in – naked, vulnerable, flushed cheeks, parted lips… "Eric," he looks up at me, dazed. "What're you doing…?"

"I told you already," I say, unbuttoning my jeans. "I'm going to fuck you."

"Oh…" he mumbles, and I doubt a word I said even registered.

"And tell me if you think you're going to puke. I don't want to have to clean that shit up for you."

"Fine… 'M fine…" he slurs.

Too impatient to search for a proper lubricant, I push his legs back and spit before driving it. Well, good thing he's drunk! That'll cut the pain in half at least, right? He's probably so numb he can't feel a damn thing, pain or pleasure.

He whimpers, frowning and squirming.

Or, hey, maybe I'm wrong. I've never been that drunk before. I like to practice a little thing called self-control when it comes to shit that could get me into trouble with the public. I place a hand on his abdomen, holding him down. He isn't hard, but that's fine. This isn't for him. It's for me. It's the least I deserve after putting up with all his baggage.

* * *

When I'm done, I finish on his stomach before tucking myself back into my pants and zipping them up. "Fuckin' perfect," I say, staring down at Kyle.

"Sick…" he mumbles quietly.

"Hm?" I ask. "You feel sick?"

"Yah…"

"All right," I say, bending down again, "Up we go."

I lift him, bridal style, and bring him to the bathroom. Good thing he isn't going to remember any of this. If he did, he'd be beyond humiliated and he'd never look at me again. When I set him down he immediately slumps onto the floor and leans against the wall. I reach past him and grab a bit of toilet paper, wiping his stomach off.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer. I give him a little shake, but he doesn't budge an inch. I guess he passed out. I let out a sigh, picking him up again and taking him to his room. I run back out to grab his clothing, quickly dressing him before tucking him in.

For some reason, there's a strange void in my chest. I'm not sure why. "Fuckin' trouble, you are," I mumble, pushing Kyle's hair out of his face. I lay down next to him, closing my eyes and trying hard not to think about anything at all.


	7. KB: Say you want it

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Thanks for reviewing :)**

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is a splitting headache. "Ow…" I whine, squeezing my eyes shut.

"You okay?" I hear a voice ask before feeling a hand on my side.

"Eric?" I murmur.

"Yeah," he says, "it's me."

"You stayed over?" I'm somewhat surprised.

"Well, yeah," he snorts. "I didn't want you dying or anything. You were pretty fucking drunk."

"And now I'm pretty fucking hung over," I mutter, hating myself for last night's idiocy. Or, what little I remember of it.

"I tried to tell you to stop, but you wouldn't."

"Next time just fucking punch me out," I say, moaning at the pain in my head.

"Okay," he snorts, and part of me wonders if he'd actually go and do a thing like that.

I roll over to face him. "My backside hurts," I mumble, noticing more pain. Just what I need.

"Well, yeah," he laughs, "you fell about a hundred times. You probably bruised your tailbone."

"Oh," I wrinkle my nose.

"You shouldn't let Stan get to you like that," he says. "You made a dumbass out of yourself for no good reason."

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," I tell him.

He smirks, getting up and out of bed.

"Where are you going?" I ask, forcing myself into a sitting position and immediately feeling the contents of my stomach rise to my throat.

"What's that look for?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

I don't say anything, instead I race to the bathroom and begin to hurl in the sink.

"Ah, gross," he says after following me. He rubs his hand up and down my back. "Want me to get you anything?"

"Water…"

He leaves and returns a few moments later with a glass, setting it on the counter next to me before disappearing again.

After I'm done hurling, I spit into the sink, glaring down at the disgusting mess before turning on the taps and washing it all away. God, I really hate myself sometimes. When the evidence is gone and my mouth is washed out, I grab the glass of water and down it.

"Eric?" I call.

"In the kitchen," I hear him answer.

Sipping on the water, I saunter into the kitchen.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

"Yes," I say before noticing what he's doing. "What the hell?" I shriek.

He's pouring bottle after bottle of liquor down the sink. "This is definitely for your own good, Kahl."

"That's not for you to decide!" I shout.

"After last night, yeah, I think it is."

"Why?" I ask bitterly.

"Because," he says, "what happened last night disgusted me and I hated seeing you like that. At first, it was funny… but it isn't so funny when you're puking your guts out and unable to talk. Even now… look at yourself."

I frown, glancing away. I can't quite find it in me to look at him because I know he's right. I just don't want to admit it. I'm awful. I really am.

"Try sobriety," he suggests. "Things aren't as bad as you think they are. Who cares if you're a little awkward socially? It's not worth drinking yourself sick over."

I let out a sigh, finishing the glass of water before choosing to reply. "Fine," I say simply. My tone is probably pretty cold, but I can't help it. I'm not yet willing to admit that I'm wrong and Eric fucking Cartman is right…

God, this is the most dysfunctional relationship ever.

* * *

"How's the sober life, Jew?" Eric asks me later on in the week as I enter his office.

"It's been three days," I tell him tartly. "I'm fine. I'm not an alcoholic."

"I beg to differ."

I just glare at him.

"If looks could kill," he snorts.

"Asshole."

"You're so fucking sour," he comments. "Holy shit, Kahl."

I try to soften, but it's difficult.

"Come here," he says, waving me towards him.

I approach his desk, arms crossed defensively. He stands up and cups my face in his palms, kissing me. I uncross my arms, grabbing hold onto the material of his shirt as I kiss back.

"I'm sorry," I say once we break apart.

He shrugs. "It's all right. I get it. I'm not asking you to fix your issues overnight, but I'm just asking you to recognize that they're there."

"I know… and I think I am beginning to."

He nods. "Then that's all I can ask for."

"So, back to business?"

"Back to business," he says, sitting back down. "City hall is getting impatient. They want results now."

"Results for the crime crackdown?"

"Yes."

"What will you do?" I ask carefully.

"Hm… I can have the McCormicks arrested," he says in a nonchalant manner. "Easily."

"What?" I just about choke. "Why would you do that?"

"To make it look like I'm making an effort," he says simply. "Kinny's family is an easy target."

"He's not a prostitute though!" I shout desperately. "Or a dealer! He just works at a bar!" Sure, he's dealt before, but I'm not about to let that slip.

"Do you think that matters, Kahl? He'll be seen as an accomplice."

"Y-you can't do that!" I cry. "Please, don't!"

"A pretty young guy like Kenny? I'm sure they'd _love_ him in prison," he laughs cruelly.

How heartless can a person be?

"God, I'm kidding," he laughs some more. "Calm down."

I gape at him, "Jokes like that aren't funny."

He smirks. "You should've seen your face."

I shake my head at him. "You're awful…"

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

Nothing is real anymore. Or, at least that is what it feels like. It is as if I'm in this semi-permanent state of, "What the fuck? Is this even happening?" It's been like this since last week. Maybe the severe lack of sleep is finally catching up with me. Either that or I have some weird shit going on in my head that needs sorting out, but I doubt it's anything like that. It doesn't feel serious. It just feels surreal, I suppose.

On a somewhat related note, lately I have been putting myself into hypothetical situations. I'll see or read something and imagine an elaborate scenario of what I would do. Sometimes I can get so into it that I forget it's just pretense. It's so vivid lately. When I used to do this sort of thing I could only go so far and there was not the same spectacular clarity that there is now. I think it might be related as to why reality seems unreal and foggy. Fake things feel real and real things seem fake.

The weeks continue to pass without a hitch. Eric still hasn't tried to sleep with me again and I'm hoping it's because he realizes I probably wasn't quite ready… However, I know that's probably not the case. I can feel him growing restless and impatient and it's beginning to worry me. He's been angry lately, snapping a lot. I'm trying not to let it bother me, but it _is_ bothering me.

Eric is angry again today. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's city hall ragging on him for results… or maybe it's just me. I know I'm not a great boyfriend, but I'm trying. I really am. I haven't been drinking; I've been more open… Maybe I _should_ just give him what he wants. Would it be easier? Aren't relationships a little about sacrifice? Or maybe I'm just weak. "Are you all right?" I ask carefully, reading the situation as I walk into his office.

"Not a good day," he replies gruffly, sighing.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, sitting down.

"You don't sound sorry."

"Well… You've been angry a lot lately."

He only shrugs in response. "Hey…"

"Hm?"

"Let's fuck."

"Here?" Now?" I ask in a bitter tone. "Is that an order?"

"Sure, you can think of it as such," he shrugs nonchalantly. "Similar to me asking you to get me my coffee."

"It's not the same at all," I whisper.

He smirks. "I know, I only said to think of it as if it were."

"I'm not in the mood…"

"But you love me," he says. "This is what people do when they're in love. Don't you want to make the person you love feel better?"

"People will hear…" I try to reason, feeling my cheeks flush.

"Well…" he says feigning a solemn tone, "Do you want to make things harder for yourself?"

"Eric, come on…"

He examines his nails, as if this whole ordeal is hardly of any importance. "You should have learned by now, Kahl. It's your fault for not remembering what happened last time I had you sign an agreement."

I flop onto the sofa, bending over and sandwiching my head between my legs. I can almost hear my heart palpitating. "That's not fair," I protest, voice trembling.

"I don't care about being fair," he says. "I care about getting what I want."

"Then why do you want me?" I ask.

"Because I want to hurt you," he states simply.

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a painful sensation in my chest. I knew it. I fucking KNEW it! I knew he hadn't changed... I knew he didn't grow up. He just grew even more twisted than before and damn good at hiding it. I think that makes it all the worse. I let out a silent sigh, twisting my hands in my hair. "Eric, that isn't fair!" I practically sob. "This is like blackmail!"

"Kahl, I told you once and I'll tell you again – I don't care about being fair. I care only about getting what I want. That's why I'm here. That's why I am the mayor," he says. "Go ahead and tell whoever you want. I spent years creating a squeaky clean rep and giving myself an acceptable appearance, so who do you think they'll believe. A drunk, jobless Jew or the mayor? A nobody or the man who runs this shitty fucking town?"

I hate to admit it, but it's true. He's more powerful than me. He even won over my own parents with his volunteer recognition ceremony, neighbourhood watch program, and annual town clean-ups.

Goddammit…

"Exactly," he says when I don't answer him. "It's my word against yours. They won't believe you. They'll only hate you. That's how these people are. They're all morons. I changed this town for the better and people never want to suspect something bad from someone who did so much good. The citizens are on my side, the police are on my side. Who do you have? Stan and Kenny? An ex drunk and the town whore, what a laugh."

"You're evil," I whisper.

"Yeah," he chuckles. "Maybe I am… but right now, I'm also untouchable. Think about it, Kahl. If you stick with me, you'll be untouchable, too. You'll be able to climb the ladder of success and make something of yourself. Come on, you don't want to stay a nobody your whole life, do you?"

"All I have to do is let you use me?" I ask, feeling sick.

"If that's the way you want to word it, yes. It's the way of the world. Use or be used."

"But why?" I shout desperately.

"I already told you why."

"You want to hurt me," I state numbly, "but why?"

"Because."

"Because?"

He doesn't elaborate.

I rub my hand down my face. Yeah, Eric has done some pretty fucking nasty things, but this might, by far, be the worst. This is worse than the time he laughed through my Bar Mitzvah. This is worse than the time he Killed Kenny and laughed about it. This is worse than the time he stole Stan's asthma inhaler and wouldn't even give it back even when he had an attack. And then he laughed about that, too. He's always fucking laughing.

"Undress and spread yourself out on my desk," he demands.

I can heart my own heart beating at a rapid pace and I'm wondering if he can hear it to.

"Undress," he repeats in that same tone.

I feel like screaming… but I won't. He'd probably love it if I did. I swallow a whimper, making a quiet strangling sound as I reach for my tie.

"Slowly," he requests.

He watches as I remove layer after layer of clothing. The entire time, his expression doesn't change. I don't know what he's thinking. After I'm fully undressed, I take shaky steps towards his desk before lying on top of it.

"Say you want it," Eric says, leaning over me. He grabs my face and forces me to look him in the eye.

"No," I manage to choke out.

"Say it," he sings and I feel like fucking screaming… but I don't.

"No, please… I can't…" I whisper.

"Say it," he repeats and I feel wet fingers on me – inside of me.

"Eric," I supress a moan, trying to keep my voice even.

"Jesus Christ, Kahl. Say it." He sounds angry… impatient… Like he's desperate for my consent so he doesn't have to say this was rape.

I don't want to say that either so I squeeze my eyes shut and say, "Fuck me."

"What was that, Kahl?" he asks, and there is humour in his tone as his fingers dig deeper. "I'm not quite sure I heard you."

"Fuck me," I repeat, my body burning.

"Hm?"

"Fuck me!" I shout, angry and frustrated and upset. He doesn't understand that it won't change a thing.

"As you wish," he says.

Soon the fingers are gone and are replaced with something else, but even now… He's gentle.

* * *

It wasn't like the first time. When it's over, I can't quite bring myself to move. I just stay still, staring up at the ceiling. I hear Eric buckling his belt before he takes a seat back at his desk and he looks like the whole thing didn't even happen.

"Go clean yourself," he says to me.

I feel like I'm on the verge of tears. Why? I gather my clothing up off the floor and make my way to the bathroom in the corner of the room. Once inside, I stare at myself in the mirror.

Why the fuck did I let this happen? Am I really that desperate? I feel my shoulders begin to shake as I turn away, refusing to look at myself any longer.

I'm not going to cry. I'm not. Hell no. I take a deep breath, clean myself off, and walk back out of the bathroom with as much dignity as I can muster.

Eric is smiling. "You're too trusting Kahl," he says softly, touching my cheek. "If it wasn't me, then it would have been someone else."

* * *

The following few days are business, business and more business. The fact that he assaulted me wasn't brought up, and I'm thankful. I hope it doesn't happen again. The thought itself makes me want to die of shame. I guess the fact that I laid down and took it makes me just as sick and horrible as Eric is. I've been trying not to think about it because it's so humiliating.

We've fucked twice since then. Those times, I initiated it in a desperate and pathetic attempt to overwrite what happened and keep it from happening again. I know it doesn't work like that, but I can't seem to stop this shameful downward spiral. At least he is always gentle. I still find that strange.

The pay is good… Doesn't that make _me_ the prostitute? Probably.


	8. EC: Scapegoat

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Thanks for nice reviews :) **

**Eric's POV**

* * *

"Undress and spread yourself out on my desk," I said to Kyle last week. He flushed as I watched him do exactly what he was told to do. After removing his final article of clothing, he laid on his back, inching his knees apart in a tentative manner. I moved towards him, grabbing him by the ankles and dragging his body closer to mine. I leaned down and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me. "Say you want it." I made him scream. Though it would be quite the scandal, part of me hoped every damn person in this shitty building heard it. I wanted people to know that he's mine. I undid my belt and unzipped my pants, getting out my already hard cock. Hell, I was hard the moment he began to undress. "Shh, Kahl," I said soothingly as I slowly and carefully eased my way into him.

I paused as he took in breaths, trying to relax his muscles. I placed my hand on his chest as I begin to move. I could feel his heart. It was beating quite rapidly. I wonder what he was feeling. Fear? Anger? Or perhaps neither. Nonetheless, soon enough, I had him moaning and squirming and tossing his head back. If I didn't have a firm hold on him, I think he would have squirmed right off the desk.

I've been told I'm good in bed. I bet I could even give that retard Kenny a run for his money. I pinned his arms down above his head as his body continues to shake and shudder, whimpers and moans issuing from his throat. God, he looked hot. I know I'm a bad person for thinking it.

* * *

He hasn't mentioned it and neither have I, but this morning he walks into my office looking thoroughly uncomfortable. "What you did to me…" he pauses, trailing off. So, he's finally decided to bring it up.

"Fucking you?" I offer.

He shuts his eyes, trembling slightly. "Don't say it like that…" he murmurs.

"Why the hell not?" I ask. It's what it was, right? It wasn't simple sex. It was fucking. I fucked him. I dominated him. I...

Still unable to open his eyes, he says, "I find myself wondering why I can't seem to hate you. Even now, I only feel love and that's probably why all of this hurts so much. I feel like it would hurt a lot less if I did hate you. I wish I could."

I cross my arms, listening to each word he lets out. Love really _does_ turn people into vulnerable messes. Well, most people. Not me.

At least he doesn't cry. I don't know how I'd react if he did. I'm not sure whether it'd be a turn on or a total boner killer. When I was a kid, I'd fantasize about Kyle-tears, but now that I'm older and slightly more conscious of my sadism, I'm not sure how I'd feel about it.

"I can't forgive you," he admits, as if he's only now realizing it. He opens his eyes, glancing off to the side.

I just smirk. "Someday, you will."

"Maybe…"

He says nothing more, so I drag him towards me and sit him on my lap, putting a possessive arm around his waist. He puts his hands on my shoulders, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine briefly before drawing back. I press my mouth to his throat gently before biting down hard. He gasps, tightening his grip on my shoulders and letting out a soft moan. "You like it a little rough, huh?" I murmur. Who knew he'd have a kink like that? "Fuckin' masochist."

"Sadist," he retorts, without missing a beat.

"Then I guess we really are the perfect match." He closes his eyes and sinks into me. I think that I have him exactly where I want him.

I put my hand on his neck, brushing my thumb down his throat. "Are you going to kill me?" he asks quietly as I tighten my hold on him.

"No," I say before letting go. "In the end, it's all up to you. Do you want to die, or do you want to live? It's simple as that." A lie, of course. I know I'm capable of murder, above other things, but I don't think I could kill Kyle. In the end, I _do_ love him. I once thought what I felt for him was pure carnal attraction, but it isn't. I think I figured that out after I raped him for the first time when he was drunk and incoherent. Saying it, even to myself, makes me want to be better, for his sake… but it's easier said than done. It won't ever happen. I'm no saint and I never will be. I'm not capable of it. I told Kyle the night he got shitfaced that I was disgusted. I don't know whether I meant by him or myself.

"It's not simple," he whispers, eyes still shut.

"Choose your words wisely, Kahl," I warn, reaching forward and teasing one of his curls. "Remember, I'm the one in control here."

He shudders at the touch. "Why do you want to hurt me?"

"Because I care about you, and it causes me great pleasure to have control over you in ways that no one else ever will," I explain. "Pain is a lesson." The words come out easily now because I know I won't scare him away.

"You care?" he asks numbly.

"I do."

"You sound fucking psychotic," he tells me. "You're a terrible person."

I just laugh. We both know it's true.

* * *

Kyle is long gone and so is the sun. It's dark outside when I finally leave the office and I find myself making my way to the pub. This will be a bit of a farewell.

"Eric," Kenny smiles happily when I walk through the doors. It's probably going to be the last time he ever directs a smile in my direction. Like Kyle, he's too trusting. He's always been like this. It'll be his downfall. He'll hate me after tonight. "What can I get you?"

Fortunately, the place is empty for the most part. There are a few drunken rednecks sitting in the corner, but anyone can see that they're too wasted to know what's happening in the room. "Bourbon," I say, taking a seat on a bar stool.

"So, how're you treating Kyle?" he asks.

"Are you really going to interrogate me?" I snort.

He just chuckles, placing a glass in front of me. "Kyle can be secretive," he says, "I just want to know what's going on from both your perspectives."

"Nosy fucker."

He grins. "So, what's he like in the sack?"

"Loud," I smirk, and if Kyle was here to hear me say it I know I'd get a mouthful.

"Nice," Kenny says, nodding his approval.

"I'm surprised he was a virgin," I mention.

"Why?" he asks. "Kyle was always the most wholesome one of us."

"Still. He's twenty-three. I don't know how he went so long without at least getting curious."

"He had other things on his mind, I suppose," Kenny shrugs.

"Sounds positively thrilling," I say sarcastically.

He chuckles, "Yeah, anyway… Treat him well. He deserves to be treated well."

"I treat him just fine," I insist.

* * *

I give Kyle the following day off. He doesn't need to be around for this meeting. If he was here, he'd only protest and try to stop what I'm planning on doing. We can't have that.

The day is filled with meetings – concerned parents and many annoying citizens coming to whine about things I don't care about. "These things take time," I continuously assured each worried face. "We're looking into a few drug and prostitution related cases."

A total lie, but I have a lazy backup plan. I'm going to get Carol and Stuart McCormick into trouble because I'm pretty fucking sure they still have a meth lab. They're going to be a bit of a scapegoat… but then again, I'm not really doing anything wrong here. They are all law-breakers. Even dear, sweet Kenny, who hides the fact that his parents own the meth lab. He's even done deals for them in the past. It's not like anyone will miss them. Maybe it's cruel, but then again, so am I.

"Hello, hello," I say, taking a seat and greeting all the familiar faces on city council.

"Mayor," Linda Stotch clears her throat. "What are we going to do about the crime around the town?"

"There have been two more drug arrests," Barbrady adds. "Meth. It's becoming an increasing problem."

"Ah, yes…" I sigh solemnly. "I have suspicions as to where these drugs are being acquired."

"Where?" Randy Marsh asks.

"Carol and Stuart McCormick," I frown. "I've recently discovered that they may own a meth lab. It's worth investigating."

"Should I send a few cops over to check it out?" Barbrady asks.

"That would be prudent," I nod.

I wonder if Kenny will forgive me for screwing his parents. Not that I really give a rat's ass. I'm only doing what I have to do. If meth is the problem, then the McCormick family is clearly at fault. I _am_ the mayor, after all. I can't just ignore a problem if I have the solution. Right? Right.


	9. KM: I'm not crazy

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Kenny's POV**

* * *

I'm lying in my room when, out of nowhere, I hear loud banging on my front door. I look out my window and see the cars. That can only mean one thing. The police are here and probably to arrest my dad yet again. Awesome. I let out a sigh, sauntering down the stairs and opening the door only to come face to face with Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan. I raise an eyebrow. "Hey, guys…" I say carefully, "What's up?"

"Sorry, council's orders," Clyde says, getting handcuffs out. "Kenneth McCormick, you are under arrest."

"C-council?" I nearly choke on my own saliva. "What?"

"There's a meth lab in your back yard," he points out. "It's not exactly well hidden."

"Hands up, legs spread," Craig demands impatiently as he begins to cop a fuckin' feel.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I ask with bitter humour as he paws at my arms, legs, thighs, ass…

"Funny," he says dryly, finishing the grope and allowing Clyde to cuff me.

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ… "Thanks for the triple X pat down, asswipes," I snap as they shove me into the back of their car none too gently.

"McCormick," Craig sighs, "Where are your parents and brother?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. "They all probably ran off as soon as they heard the word _arrest_."

"And where is your sister?" he asks.

"I don't know… She moved out years ago. Why?" I ask shakily.

"We need to bring her in for questioning."

"But… she didn't do anything. I don't even think she knew about the drug dealing."

"That may be, but we still need her to cooperate," Craig says.

"I…"

He rubs a hand across his face, a tired gesture. "Remember, you can choose to stay silent until you get a lawyer."

"I know," I whisper, staring down at my cuffed hands. I'd like to say I have nothing to hide, but everyone knows that's not exactly the case.

Shit!

* * *

Right away, they take me to a holding cell. Clyde leaves the room while Craig stays. He takes a seat at a desk and begins leafing through papers. "Craig," I say desperately from behind the bars. "Come on, please…"

"Sorry," his voice is cold and he doesn't even spare me a glance. He keeps his head down as he continues to do paperwork at the desk.

"Fuck," I hiss, curling my fingers around the bars. "How long am I going to be here?"

"You're being transferred to Colorado State Prison tomorrow to await trial."

"What?" I choke.

"Prison," he repeats dryly, "tomorrow."

"Oh, my god!" I sob in disbelief. "I can't go to prison!"

"Sorry," he says again, sounding less than genuine and altogether careless. I suppose there isn't much Craig Tucker cares about. He's a cold bastard.

"C-Craig," I stutter, "Seriously, think about what you're doing! You know me! We're friends!"

"So?" he asks, finally looking up. "Are you asking me to break the law and give up my job to save your ass?"

"Craig, do you know what they do to guys like me in prison?" I choke.

"You'll be able to handle yourself."

"God!" I shout, slumping onto the dirty floor. "How can you be so fucking heartless?"

This is Craig. The very same Craig I used to be friends with. The very same Craig I used to partake in many law-breaking activities with. We spent our teen years sneaking into bars. The best part of it was the fact that we knew we weren't supposed to be there. Once we got legal, the fun was gone. He used to be just as bad as I was and now he's just a hypocrite.

I swear I'm killing myself as soon as I have the chance. There are things worse than dying, and if I end up in prison I'll be forced to experience them.

I began scanning the area. I could try tying a noose with the bed sheets… no… I glance back at the desk Craig is seated in front of. "Craig?" I ask numbly.

He sighs. "What now?"

"I want to make a phone call."

"I guess that can be arranged. He stands up from the desk and approaches me. As soon as he unlocks the door, I bolt.

I hardly get far, but I got what I want. I snatch a fine-tipped pen and shove it in my pocket as he throws me back in the jail cell.

"You just lost your phone call," he states.

I just laugh. "Whatever."

When he turns around I take the pen out. This is going to fucking hurt. I take the cap off and dig the tip into my wrist, dragging down and creating a deep, jagged cut. I'm unable to suppress a pained groan and this is when Craig looks over.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he raises his voice.

"I'm not going to prison!" I shout, doing the same to my other wrist.

Craig unlocks the jail cell again, applying pressure on my cuts. "Shit…" he mumbles. "Are you trying to give yourself ink poisoning?"

This won't kill me, but it'll get me to a hospital.

* * *

At the hospital, they stitch up my wrists, bandage them, and strap me to a bed. I feel like a crazy person in a nut house. "Hello?" I shout at the empty room, struggling and trying to free a limb.

A few minutes later a doctor enters. He's old and grey and kind looking. "Kenneth McCormick," he says, staring down at the clipboard in his hand. "You had an accident."

"It wasn't an accident," I tell him. "I did it on purpose."

Clearly, he already knows this. "You're going to get a psych evaluation."

"What?" I snap. "Why?"

He sounds saddened. "You tried to kill yourself, son."

"I know," I say, starting to cry. "I'm not going to prison! I didn't do anything wrong!"

The doctor pats my arm. "If they deem you fit, you'll go to prison. If not, you'll go to a hospital. A different type of hospital than this one."

"An asylum?" I sob, trying to shake myself loose.

"Think of it as a place to rest until you're fit to have a trial," he suggests. "And try not to struggle or you'll hurt yourself. You'll pull your stitches."

I try to relax, but I've worked myself up. I sniff before calmly asking, "Can you call someone for me?"

"Who?"

"Kyle Broflovski… I need to talk to him."

"Of course," the doctor mutters before leaving the room.

When the doctor is gone, Craig enters. "You're going to get me in trouble with that little stunt you pulled," he says.

"I don't really care."

"You're not sane," he states.

"Craig," I sigh, closing my eyes. "I am perfectly sane."

"No, you're not."

"No, maybe I'm not… but are any of us truly sane?"

"You're such an idiot," he murmurs.

I simply smile. "You're lucky I'm strapped down."

"And why's that?" he asks.

"The doctors think I'm crazy, so maybe I'll start playing the part."

Craig smirks. "You're one twisted fuck," he says, turning around.

I sit in silence after he leaves. The nurses come and go and I chat idly with them when they talk. Some of them are cautious, like they think I'm some psychopathic criminal. I'm not.

* * *

Soon after, yet another nurse enters the room with Kyle in tow behind her. "Kenny…" he says quietly, looking horrified.

"Hey," I greet him.

"What did they do to you?"

"I got arrested," I say.

"Then shouldn't you be in jail?"

"I was. They were going to transfer me to a prison," I start, "I didn't like that ideal…"

"Who did this?" he asks weakly.

"I think you and I both know the answer to that."

"Eric…?" his voice cracks. "He wouldn't… Why would he… I thought…"

"It's okay," I sigh. "I know you love him… and he probably loves you… but this isn't just another one of his childhood pranks. He went too far."

Kyle closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath. "I'm so disgusted with myself right now."

"Why?" I ask. "You can't really help the way you feel."

"I wish I could…"

"It's okay," I mumble.

"I'll get you out of here," he promises.

I force a smile.

"I'll come back later," he whispers.

* * *

I end up falling asleep. When I wake up, someone is shaking me. I'm unstrapped and once again handcuffed as Craig brings me to another room in the hospital. There's a middle aged man sitting down. He introduces himself as the psychologist. "Hello, Mr. McCormick," he greets.

"Kenny," I correct him. "Mr. McCormick is my dad…"

"My mistake," he smiles. "Take a seat."

I sit across from him. "So, what is this?"

"I'll be asking you a series of questions that you will answer. Whether you'll be staying at a hospital it based on how respond."

"Oh…" I say.

"Shall we get started?"

"Sure," I shrug.

"Do you often feel sad or tired?"

"I wouldn't say often... Just sometimes."

"Do you use alcohol to cope with your problems?"

"No."

"Have you ever?"

"As a teenager."

"Do you use illegal drugs?"

"No."

"Have you ever?"

"As a teenager."

"Does anyone in your family use illegal drugs?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Mom, Dad, and my brother, Kevin."

"Do you feel resentment towards your family?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I wish they were different," I admit.

"Do you experience moments of intense guilt?"

"Yes."

"Who do you feel guilt towards?"

"Friends."

"Why?"

"I feel like I should be better."

"Better? How?"

"I feel like I should try more… make an effort instead of just existing."

"What do you do to cope with the guilt?"

"I don't."

"Do you care what people think of you?"

"To an extent."

"Are you trusting?"

"Yes."

"Would you consider yourself to be too trusting?"

"Yes, but I've recently learned not to be."

"Do you do well in social situations?"

"Yeah. I'd say I'm an extrovert."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Prison."

"Have you ever been abused?"

"Yes."

"When did this occur?"

"My dad used to hit me and Kevin when we were kids."

"Why?"

"Because we were bad and he got angry."

"Have you ever regretted something you've done for money?"

"I've never done anything bad for money…" I say slowly, choosing not to mention the few deals I've done. "I've only ever had one job in my life and I still have it now."

"And what's that?"

"I'm a bartender."

"Is that what you plan to do for the rest of your life?"

"Probably."

"How do you think your future looks?"

"Normal… a little mundane," I admit, "but I never thought that was a bad thing."

"Why did you attempt suicide?"

"Because I don't want to go to prison."

"You'd rather die?"

"I wouldn't die," I say before I can catch myself.

The psychologist raises an eyebrow at me. "You wouldn't die if you killed yourself?"

"Never mind," I mutter.

He continues to ask questions and I continue to answer. Finally, he writes something down before pressing a button. A moment later, Craig walks into the room and grabs me by the arm, yanking me off my seat. "Be gentle, asshole!" I yell, nearly stumbling.

"Mind your tongue," he says.

I let out a frustrated groan as I'm escorted away. "This is so fucking retarded," I say.

"This is your fault," Craig snaps, clearly irritated. "You're the one that tried to run away."

"Craig," I whine childishly, "Don't yell at meeee." I let out a short laugh. "God, I hate you so much right now it's unreal."

"You'll get over it."

"If I go to prison, I'll kill myself!"

"No, you won't," he says, irritated. "Do you honestly think thousands of people before you haven't tried? It happens, but not as much as you might think. It's hard to kill yourself in prison."

I click my tongue at him.

Clyde arrives to watch me while Craig speaks to the psychologist. He returns a few minutes later with the doctor following behind.

"What'd they say?" I ask.

"They're putting you in an institution."

"What?" I snap.

"He says you seem to have trouble separating life from death… reality from fantasy… They think it stems from an inability to cope with certain events in your life and in your past."

"Reality and fantasy…" I mumble, sighing. "So, they think I'm insane?"

"Yeah."

"Will I get another triple X pat down once I get there?" I ask bitterly.

"Probably," he admits, crossing his arms. "With your reputation, a man might have to check your asshole for drugs." I don't respond to that. I'm quiet for a long time and so is Craig. The hospital exit feels so damn close… "Don't get any ideas," Craig says, as if he's reading my mind.

Fuck it. I bolt for the door again only to see that it's fucking locked. Clyde and Craig run after me, holding me down as I struggle. I begin to panic, the severity of it all sinking in even further. I scream at them, desperate for some sort of justice.

"Ignore him," Craig cuts in, dismissing my presence.

"What is that?" I yell frantically as the doctor pulls out a needle. "No… no, no, no…!" I feel it prick my skin and I squeeze my eyes shut as I'm injected.

"Listen," Craig says, placing an uncharacteristically gentle hand on my sternum. "This is just gonna calm you down. God knows you fucking need it."

Suddenly, everything stops and my limbs feel like jelly. "Wha d'you do t'me…" I slur and everything feels like it's in slow motion.

Two nurses bring a stretcher and I'm lifted onto it. "Wheel him to the psychiatric ward," the doctor says. "They know he's coming."


	10. KB: Lie to me

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

I'm at the hospital again and I just witnessed Kenny being taken away like some kind of out of control animal. It was awful. I don't really think there's anything I can do for him now.

"Why do you do every fucking thing you're told to do?" I yell after finding Craig.

"I'm a cop," he states, but there's guilt in his stare.

"That's not why!" I say tersely, pointing my finger at him and jabbing it into his chest. "You're lying!"

He lets out a sigh. "Let's talk somewhere private."

"Why?" I raise a suspicious eyebrow.

"You want to know the truth, don't you?" he asks.

"Yes…" I say slowly.

"Then come," he nods his head towards the hallway and I follow him into a dim, empty room.

"Well?" I say expectantly once he closes the door.

"He has something on me…" Craig admits quietly.

"What?" I whisper, afraid to find out more. "Who?" Though I know the answer already.

"Eric Cartman."

"Wh-what does he have on you?" I ask, stuttering the question.

Craig looks even more miserable than he usually looks as he admits, "When I was fourteen I killed someone."

I feel my eyes widen and my lips part.

"Yeah," he snorts, reading my reaction. "Surprising, right? Boring Craig Tucker is a murderer…"

"And Eric found out?" I presume.

He confirms, "Yup."

"How?" I ask.

"I don't know," Craig shrugs. "Maybe he always knew. Maybe he followed me after school one day and saw it all happen. Maybe he was just waiting for the opportunity to put his blackmail material to good use."

"Who was it…?" I whisper the question, no longer able to raise my voice. I'm too shocked.

"Some kid that lived down the street from me," he shrugs. "He was younger… a really annoying little shit. He kept trying to fight me, but like hell I was gonna fight a kid, right? I got irritated. He wouldn't leave me alone so I pushed him. Hard. He fell and cracked his head open… I didn't mean to do it… but it happened and just like that he was dead and the contents of his skull were leaking out onto the pavement by my feet. I couldn't change what I did."

"Jesus Christ…" I choke.

"Water can wash evidence away," he murmurs somewhat offhandedly. "Did you know that?"

"Yeah," I tell him.

"I was scared… I don't ever remember being scared before. Is that weird?"

"It's not weird, Craig…" I say gently.

"We were near Stark's Pond," he says, sounding detached. "So I dragged his body and threw him in there. The pond wasn't completely frozen over yet. He sank and I ran. I went back a week later and found that the body surfaced… he looked all stiff and swollen and blue. It was disgusting… he was a child… he was so fucking small and I remember thinking, 'I did this,' and it made me throw up."

I frown, recalling a news story from a long time ago. "They discovered the body a couple weeks later," I add, filling in the blanks. "A kid named Filmore Anderson."

Ike knew him. They were classroom rivals, but they eventually became friends. Ike was sad for a while. A counsellor came to talk to the kids because they didn't really understand what was happening. Ike knew, though. He was always smarter.

Craig nods. "I wanted to become a cop…" he says, sighing. "It was my choice in the start. I wanted to atone for what I did by doing something good… helping people or whatever. Eric got wind of it. He decided to use it against me and for his own benefit. Now I'm doing more bad than good."

I'm surprised he's telling me all of this. It's the most I've ever heard him speak. He's probably wanted to get it out for a long time. It's been more than ten years since it happened and that weight has probably been heavy on his shoulders. He looks worn out. Now I get why.

* * *

It's late now. When I get home, I calmly sit down in my living room and wait for what I know is coming. Eric looks at me expectantly after entering my apartment. He seems calm and somewhat melancholic. "What are you doing here?" I ask weakly.

He smiles, walking towards me.

"Eric," my voice cracks.

"Kahl."

"T-tell me it's not true…" I plead.

"Is that what you want to hear?"

"I…"

He leans forward and I feel his mouth against my cheek before he whispers into my ear, "I ratted on the McCormicks."

Of all the lies he's told in his life… He chooses now to be honest. It's probably for the best. I feel like, in my current state of mind, if he lied I would go ahead and believe him. I want so desperately for him to just fucking lie to me. I can feel my eyes stinging and my chest tightening. I feel like my heart is going to stop and it hurts to breathe.

"I was doing my job," he continues. "I'm the mayor, right? That's what I'm supposed to do… I'm supposed to make the town better and by doing that, we can't have junkies and dealers roaming freely if there's an outcry."

"But Kenny…" I trail off.

He lets out a sigh. "To be fair, I didn't even mention his name. I just said the McCormicks had a meth lab… Stuart and Carol. It wasn't supposed to happen like this…"

"It's still your fault!" I yell.

"It was the council," he corrects. "All I did was give them a push in that direction by talking about the meth lab."

I let out a shaky breath, not knowing what to believe. I close my eyes, feeling his fingers tangle in my hair.

"You're mine," he hisses.

I'm quiet for a moment. "No," I say. "I'm not… but I could have been." He's pulling on my hair now and it hurts, but I don't protest. "I love you," I continue, sniffling, "but I can't be with you anymore."

"Why?" he growls.

"Maybe someday I could have forgiven you for the things you did to me…" I tell him, though I'm ashamed of how weak that makes me, "but what you put Kenny through… I can't forgive you for that, Eric."

"Why not?" he asks.

"If I forgave you, it would make it seem like I didn't care. I do. You can forgive the pain people inflict upon you, but it's different when it comes to pain inflicted upon others."

"Is it really?"

"It is," I insist and I know he probably doesn't even understand why.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he says, finally untangling his fingers. He looks sombre as he cups my face in his hands. He doesn't move forward. He doesn't try to kiss me. He just stares at me and there's something so fucking innocent in that look… but I can't give in.

"Stop!" I scream at him, pushing him away.

He holds his hands up, surrendering.

"You can't just do things like that!" I yell, voice cracking.

"Do things like what, Kahl?"

"Act nice, and pretend you care, then go back to being a fucking asshole the next day!" I cover my mouth with a hand as I start crying, ashamed and embarrassed. "What you did to Kenny…" I can't even finish the sentence.

Cartman doesn't say anything at first. He just looks a way, like he can't stand the sight of me. "Tsk…" he sighs. "Fuck Kinny! Fuck the McCormicks!" he shouts angrily. "Fuck you! _Fuck you_!"

I sob loudly, shuddering at his tone. He sounds psychotic.

"Come on, Kahl, don't fucking do that…" he hisses. "Just don't."

_Don't cry_. That's what he's telling me. I fucking hate when people say that. I hate it. Nothing feels worse than someone telling you not to cry because they don't want to see it or deal with it. It makes you feel angry and shameful and it feels even worse when the person saying that is someone you care about.

"I can't!" I sob. I care about him… No, it's more than that. It always has been and I've tried so hard to hide it but I can't keep doing this anymore. I love him and I want him to care about me the way I care about him… and at the same time, I wish I could just hate him. That would make everything so much easier. I wish you could change the way you felt about things. If I could do that, I'd be able to solve all my problems. Apathy would be wonderful.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"No, you're not!" I scream, hitting him. He doesn't look fazed. He hardly budges. I'm not even strong enough to hurt him like this.

"Yes, I am," he insists, wrapping his fingers around my wrists and holding me in place, "but not for the Kinny thing."

"Then why…?"

"I'm sorry for the insults… for making you feel like you weren't worth anything, for the things I did to you when you told me to stop and for the things I did to you when you were drunk and unable to protest," he says, letting me go, "unable to get away…"

"What?" I ask in a choked whisper. "What?" I say again, covering my mouth as realization creeps into my mind. "No… No, no, no…!"

"Yes," he says quietly.

"No!" I scream, feeling like I'm going fucking crazy. I sink to the floor and hunch over, covering my face in my hands and sobbing grossly. "No! You're lying! Stop lying…!"

I feel his hand on the top of my head. "I love you," he says sadly. "I've never been able to say that aloud with confidence before, but now I can. That's why I can't lie to you anymore."

"No…" I moan miserably.

"Hey," he murmurs, placing a gentle hand on my cheek.

"What?" I ask, unfamiliar with that kind of physical contact.

"I'm really am sorry, Kyle," he says, pronouncing my name carefully and correctly for the first time in his life.

"Don't," I choke. "Please… Oh, God."

"I'm sorry," he says again, and I start sobbing harder because his tone sounds so fucking genuine.

He wanders out of the apartment quietly as I continue to cry into my hands. I don't know how long I'm just sitting here, but Stan barges into the apartment looking scared. He doesn't hesitate to approach me.

"K-Kyle?" he asks carefully, looking afraid at the same time.

I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to calm down but it's too hard.

"Kyle?" he says my name again. "What happened? You're scaring me… I heard you all the way from down the hall…"

"Oh, God," I gasp, looking at Stan with wide eyes and what probably looks like a really helpless expression. "Look at me!"

"There's nothing wrong with you, Kyle," he says softly.

"He's ruining me!" I shout. "He's killing me…!"

"Who is?"

"Eric!"

"Shh…" Stan tries to comfort as he pulls me into his chest. "I'm sorry, Kyle."

I'm getting tired of all the apologies. Nonetheless, I press my face into his sweater, sobbing openly and it feels good not to have someone telling me to stop.

* * *

When I wake up Stan is asleep against me and it feels like we're thirteen years old again, having sleepovers at our parents' houses. I'd give anything to be a child once more. All my problems were shallow compared to this.

I lean my head against Stan's shoulder, letting a numb feeling overtake me. It's better than feeling all this pain. "Kyle?" I hear him mumble.

"Hm?"

"You're awake?" he asks.

"Mhm…"

He shifts slightly and wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer and hugging me like a stuffed animal to his chest. "Do you wanna talk about what happened with Cartman?" he asks softly.

"No…" I say airily. My head feels cottony. It's too soon to talk about it. I'll let this numb feeling last a little longer. It's easier than welcoming the inevitable pain.

"Will you ever tell me?"

"I will," I promise.

"Just not now?" he guesses.

"Yeah."

"Okay," he says. "I'll be here when you're ready."

"Thanks, Stan…" I tell him, "and I'm really sorry…"

"What for?"

"For yelling at you and making you feel like a bad friend."

"It's okay Kyle," he says. "You were hurting. Part of that was my fault. I _was_ a bad friend, and for that, I'm sorry too."

"It's fine."

"Is it?" he asks.

"Yeah. You're here now, so it's fine." He tightens his grip around me. "Would Wendy be jealous of she saw us right now?" I ask, trying to make light of a painful situation.

"Maybe," Stan chuckles.

I force a smile, even though he can't see it. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself I'm okay, even though I'm not. I don't think I'll be okay for a long, long time. I always knew Eric was awful, but I didn't think he was this awful. I don't think he's capable of feeling remorse, even if he tries to make it seem like that isn't the case. He's the kind of guy who will play with your heart and laugh as it breaks.

* * *

I spend the day pacing, making circles around the rooms in the apartment. Stan takes the day off work to be with me. He probably feels like he has a lot to make up for. "Kyle?" he says my name. "Sit down for a few minutes."

I pause and let out a sigh.

"How 'bout I make us something to eat?" he offers.

"No," I murmur, not feeling particularly hungry.

"What did… What did Cartman do to you?" He quietly asks the question, as if he's worried I might snap.

"I thought you weren't going to pry," I say.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

I shake my head. "It's okay," I reason. "I should talk about it, right? That's how you get better… you talk about it, you cope, you move on… It sounds so fucking easy."

"It's never that easy, though," he smiles sympathetically. "We both know that."

"You're right," I sigh. "Should I go see him?" Stupid question. No. I shouldn't go see him, but I know I will anyway.

"I… I don't know," Stan shrugs. "I mean, I don't understand what happened so I can't really tell you whether or not you should… but you were so fucking upset. I've never seen you like that before."

"It can't be fixed," I say.

"Then why do you want to go see him?" Stan asks softly.

"I don't know," I murmur.

"Yes, you do."

"I love him," I whisper.

Stan picks up his keys and says, "Let's go, then."

I guess it must mean something.

* * *

I go to see Eric one last time. I know this makes me weak. I know I shouldn't be here, but I can't help myself. Stan drives and insists on waiting outside. I show up unannounced. He lets me in without a word and I follow him into the living room. "Why are you here?" he asks, pouring aged alcohol into a glass mug and taking a long sip.

"I don't know," I admit.

He scoffs lightly, closing his eyes. "How like you…"

"You're not good," I tell him. "You're not good for me and we're not good for each other."

"I know," he admits in a voice that sounds wet. "I'm oil and you're water."

"I convinced myself that deep down you might've been good… but I was just being naïve and I see that now," I say. "This is the end, Eric."

"You came all the way here just to tell me that?" he growls.

"Yes. This is the end."

"Don't say that," he hisses angrily. I press my lips together, unable to say another word – unable to tell him that I'll stay. "I'll hurt you," he seethes, eyes swimming. "I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run away from me!"

"No, you won't," I say, calling his bluff. He throws his now empty glass across the room and it shatters against the wall. My shoulders shake, but I don't budge an inch. "You can't…"

Eric reaches forward and wraps his hands around my neck, thumbs digging into my throat. "I'll kill you," he yells. "I'll snap your fucking neck like a twig…!"

"No, you won't," I repeat softly. He loves me. He may be sick, but he won't kill me. That much I can be certain of.

A moment later, he lets go and falls to his knees, gripping my hips painfully as he sobs into my abdomen.

"Eric, don't make me say it again," I plead in a wet voice, my own cheeks feeling damp.

"Please," he begs and my heart feels like it's breaking. I feel like the tables have turned. Just yesterday, I was the one crying and begging. Now it's him.

I close my eyes, trying to gather the strength to walk away. "So help me…" I whisper to myself as I push him away. I swallow a sob as I leave, not allowing myself to look back because if I do I know I'll stay. I can't keep torturing myself like this. I can't. I can't. I fucking can't.

"How'd it go?" Stan asks when I open the car door.

"Drive," I choke out and he doesn't hesitate. I force myself to take a deep breath as I wipe my cheeks dry with shaky hands. My head hurts, my chest hurts and I feel sick to my stomach. I don't think words can explain how fucking hard it was to leave him like that. I hated seeing him so fucking miserable, but I can't give in. No. I can't keep being so weak… I need to break this endless cycle before it breaks me, but maybe it's too late to worry about that. Maybe the damage is already done.


	11. EC: Goodbye

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Eric's POV**

* * *

It's fucking hilarious. I got away with so much risky shit throughout the years, and as soon as I try to screw with the McCormick family, it all comes falling down. One tiny event and it all turns to shit. I don't fucking know anymore. I just know that I fucked up big time. I got Kenny into trouble and now Kyle finally understands what I've been doing to him my whole life. I left him alone when he was a sobbing mess. I thought seeing him cry would give me some sort of pleasure, but it didn't and that surprised me. I saw Stan enter the lobby as I exited the apartment. He greeted me, but I ignored him. He can be the one to deal with Kyle.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I meant that when I said it. I don't think Kyle believed me… then again, why should he? I never gave him a damn reason to believe a word that came out of my mouth.

I wanted to break him and I think I did, but he broke me in return. I didn't notice it happen. Just last night, he left me the same way I left him the day before – a crying mess. I didn't know he had it in him, but somehow it's relieving to know he's at least that strong.

We're like oil and water. I meant that, too. We don't mix, but we fucking tried. He's too pure for me and I ruined him. I did exactly what I wanted to do, but still… I'll say it again – it wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I don't know what to do now. Should I stay, or should I go? It was nice while it lasted, but what do I have now?

Maybe karma _does_ exist and this is its way of telling me I need to stop ruining peoples' lives. I knew it wasn't going to last forever. The penis hungry hooker got arrested and his family of junky retards were found trying to flee to Denver. Nice try.

* * *

I spend the next day mulling over what happened and trying to figure out what I want to do next. I think I know what I have to do. For the first time in my damn life, I need to think about someone other than myself.

I decide to go see Kyle one last time. I want him to forgive me, but I know he can't.

Thank God, Stan isn't there when I arrive at their apartment. I know he wouldn't allow me to enter, but Kyle does. He silently lets me in, taking a seat on a chair in the living room. "Kahl…"

"What?" His voice is cold.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that," he bites. "You don't mean it."

"But I do."

He gets up and gets angry, trembling and flushed. He lets out a sound of frustration and starts beating his hands against my chest. It doesn't hurt, so I let him do it for a while, but then it gets annoying. I grab his thin wrists and he shouts expletives at me. That's when I see it: hatred. It's in those pretty eyes. It's written all over him. He hates me. Maybe it won't last. Maybe tomorrow he won't hate me anymore, but right now, he does. That won't change.

"Sh," I hush him. He sobs into my mouth as I lean forward to kiss him, but he doesn't struggle.

"I hate you," he cries when I draw back. I let go of him and he slumps onto the floor in a sad, pathetic heap. "I mean it!"

"I know you do."

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them they're different. They're still pretty, but they're empty. There's no hatred there. There isn't anything. Just a hollow void. Just a pit. "Get out… please," he says hoarsely, staring at me with those pretty, blank eyes. He briskly wipes his wet cheeks and looks away. "I can't forgive you this time. I can't do it. I can't."

"Kahl…"

"No," he whispers.

I let out a sigh. "Goodbye, then," I say before leaving.

* * *

I visit Kenny next. The doctors inform me that he's in the nuthouse. I don't get why. He's just as sane as the rest of us… Then again, maybe that doesn't mean much.

"Kinny?" I say his name as I enter the plain, white room. He's sitting on his bed wearing hospital pajamas, staring at the wall ahead. "_Kenny_?"

"Hm," he mumbles, not looking at me.

"I'm the reason you're in here."

"I know," is all he says.

"I thought you might," I admit. "I didn't come here for forgiveness, though."

"Then why are you here?" he asks, finally turning to look at me. "To make sure you did the desired damage?"

"No."

"You know," he starts, "when I get out of here, I'll have a trial. Accessory to crime… that's what they're calling me. I could get up to twenty four years for that. You ruined my fucking life! I'm twenty-three years old, Eric. I don't want to waste my youth rotting away in a cell… but you took it away from me. You took away every-fucking-thing!"

"I know. I didn't intend for it to end like this. I didn't think they'd arrest you."

"Oh, really?" he sounds unconvinced.

"I thought it'd just be your parents."

"Well," he sighs, lying down. "I guess we're all surprised, then."

"To be fair, they belong in prison."

"That isn't the point, Eric," he says. "You still don't understand… I don't think you're capable of understanding."

"Why's that?" I cross my arms.

"Because you're sick in the head," he tells me. "Maybe it's not your fault. You're just sick. You don't see things the way a normal person would. You're unspeakably selfish, thinking only of yourself and not enough of everyone else. You betrayed me… and I'm sure I'm not the only one you've betrayed over the years. You should be the one sitting in this hospital room." He rolls onto his side so his back is facing me. I don't answer him. I don't really have an answer. I see his shoulders start to shake and he's probably crying, but I'm going to pretend he's not. "Please leave," he says in a soft, wet voice.

"Do you hate me?" I ask, though I'm not sure why. Do I even care whether or not he hates me? I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter what he thinks, or what anyone here thinks of me because I'll be gone soon and none of this will fucking matter. I guess I'm running away, but maybe this is the only good thing I can do. I don't deserve to stay and there's nothing I can do to right any wrongs. It's all out of my hands now. Leaving is for the best.

"No," he says after a brief silence. "No, I don't hate you."

"Why not?"

"Because I know you," he sniffs, letting out a long sigh. "Unlike you, I'm not capable of that kind of hatred, so you know what?"

"What?"

"You have my forgiveness, Eric."

"Why?"

"Because," he sighs, "it's too painful to hold grudges."

"Oh," I murmur. For me, it was always effortless to hold a grudge. I guess that's what makes me so different from Kenny and the others.

"Besides," he says, "I know what you're probably planning on doing." He knows. He always fucking knows.

"And what's that?" I challenge him nonetheless.

"You're going to disappear."

"Yeah," I admit.

"Good."

"I hurt Kyle," I tell him.

"I thought so."

"How?"

"Why else would you be running away?" he asks rhetorically. "I know I'm not that special, but Kyle is. He's the reason. Now that you've had him, you need him. Without him, you're nothing. You'll feel empty. Now that you know you'll never have him again, there is no reason to stay in this little town."

"Yeah…" I whisper.

"I suppose I was too hopeful when I was telling him that you may have changed. You're not capable of doing that."

"I know," I shove my hands in my coat pockets.

"Are you going to tell Kyle you're leaving?" he asks.

"No."

"Will you go see him one last time?"

"No," I mumble, knowing he wouldn't want me to. That much was obvious last time I saw him.

"Kyle is a gentle person," Kenny says fondly. "He forgives too easily. I suppose I'm no different."

"Kyle isn't going to forgive me. He can't."

"Someday he will." Kenny finally rolls back over and stares at me. His cheeks are red and damp, but nonetheless he forces a smile in my direction. "So, I guess this is it."

"I guess so."

"It's for the best."

"Yeah, g'bye…" I mutter, turning away.

"Goodbye, Eric," I hear.

* * *

When I return home, I pack a bag filled with only the necessities and withdraw the entire contents of my bank account.

Maybe it will be nice to move on without the weight of obligations and the weight of the past. I'd like to be strong enough to push them all away. Or maybe that makes me weak. Nonetheless, it's for the best. Just like Kenny said, and if that idiot says it, then it must be true.


	12. KB: Epilogue

**South Park © Matt & Trey. **

**This is my favourite chapter haha. I'm either going to disappoint people, or make them relieved. Either way, enjoy! **

**Kyle's POV**

* * *

After that, Eric Cartman was gone without a trace. He left without a word to anyone. He resigned as mayor and there was no search party. It was something everyone was forced to accept. I don't know where he went and I don't know why he left. Maybe he just knew everything was falling apart and he didn't want to deal with the consequences of what he was doing. I like to think he finally learned that you can't play with human life, but I'm sure his reasons were more selfish than that.

I was once again jobless and an emotional mess. Shit happens. I've learned that. Life can be fucking beautiful and it can treat you like a God… but when you think everything is perfect the illusion shatters. You realize that there's no such thing as perfection.

Craig Tucker confessed to killing Filmore Anderson a few weeks after Eric's disappearance. I guess the guilt ended up getting to him in the end. Since Eric was no longer punishing him, he decided it was time to be honest. There was a trial, but since he was a child when the murder took place, he got tried as a young offender. Since there was no malicious intent, no evidence, plus a lenient judge… he got off easy. Cops often do, but it worked in favour this time because for anyone who knows Craig – really knows him – they'll know he's not a bad person. So, he got off with nothing more than a scheduled trip to a counsellor. The case was closed and Craig quit the force shortly after, even though they told him he didn't have to. He was never really a wordsmith or anything, but he is even quieter. These days, he hardly speaks at all. I don't see him out much, either. He's turned into a bit of a hermit. I guess it's understandable. Everyone knows what he did now. Everyone knows he killed a kid.

Kenny left the hospital after a few weeks and was transferred to prison, where he donned an orange jumpsuit. Unlike Craig's trial, Kenny's didn't go well. I visited him as often as I could. I could tell he always tried to keep in high spirits, but it got difficult. I'm sure prison can do hellish things to a guy – especially a guy as kind hearted as Kenny. The thought of him spending six undisturbed years in there makes me sick.

He got out last year. It's a shame so much of his youth was wasted in there. When he was freed, he was different. He, too, was quieter. He looked wary and exhausted in all kinds of ways, and at first he didn't even bother trying to force smiles. I guess prison is more than enough to wear a person down.

"Kyle…" he mumbled the greeting almost mechanically the day I came to pick him up. His tone was hollow.

"What happened in there?" I asked for what felt like the hundredth time, but he wouldn't say. He refused to speak a word of what happened to him in there. I know nothing I can say will ever convince him to tell me, so I try not to think about it because I always end up imagining such awful things. It turned out that committing suicide whilst in prison is a difficult thing to accomplish. Kenny tried, but all it did was land him trips into isolation. Perhaps he was being honest when he said death lost interest in him.

Craig only visited Kenny once. He couldn't bring himself to do it again. I forced him to come with me and for him, it was like seeing firsthand what he did. He was the one who threw Kenny in. He was scared, but it's no excuse for what he did. It fucked him up. I guess we all got fucked up. Some of it was our own fault, and some of it was Eric Cartman's.

Craig cried in the parking lot after the visit. He told me he hated himself. I didn't say anything. There was nothing I could offer him to ease his regret, so I just drove him home.

Kenny never did end up confessing to Butters. I found that sad, but he said he didn't want to hurt Butters reputation since the arrest tarnished the McCormick name beyond any possible reparation. It was no longer simple rumors, but a drug bust. Kevin, Stuart and Carol were all arrested. Kenny spent some time in prison, same with his dad, his mom and his brother, but they, too, will soon be free. However, I doubt they'll be walking the straight and narrow path. Some things don't change. Some things can't change.

Poor Kenny. Poor Butters. I feel like may have felt the same way at some point, but he's moved on since then and is now married to a woman named Lexus. They have two kids.

Stan and I forgave each other. He was there for me when I needed it and Wendy understood. She never left him and he never left me. They're married now. Like Mercedes and Butters, they also have a couple of kids. It's weird. It makes me feel like the odd one out. I'm still single and I have no children. No one to care for me and no one to care for.

Kenny and Craig moved in together a few months ago. Maybe they're in love. It's a one bedroom apartment after all. I don't know. It's hard to tell with them, but I guess Kenny forgave Craig for what he did. I think Craig desperately needed that. Without the forgiveness of others, it's so damn hard to forgive yourself. Filmore Anderson's parents never forgave Craig. In turn, Craig never forgave himself.

It took me a while to get back on my feet. I have trouble sleeping most nights, but I have a steady job. I now work at the Crisis Hotline. I like what I do. I was hopeless when it came to helping myself, but maybe I can help others instead. During my first week, Kenny decided to be a little asshole and prank call me on the job. I would have been mad, but I couldn't bring myself to be. Kenny hadn't joked around in such a long fucking time, it made me feel happy to hear him laughing on the other end.

Eric Cartman fucked over every person in this damn town when he left. The new mayor is stupider than McDaniels was. Oh, well. That's South Park, I suppose. Stability was never a constant thing here.

It's been a long time since I saw Eric and I doubt I'll ever see him again. I'm thirty years old now and too much has changed. I no longer talk about him or the things he did to me. His name is like a bad word amongst most people and I think it hurts us all in different ways.

Nonetheless, it's for the best. We all know that now.

* * *

Today is a Wednesday and it's a strangely quiet day. Sometimes you get these angry callers who just want someone to yell at. That is never fun, but I'm always patient. I prefer those who just want someone to vent to.

I'm doing paper work at my desk when the phone begins ringing yet again –

"Crisis hotline," I answer. There's an audible sigh from the other end. "Hello?" I say again in my gentlest voice.

_"I'm sorry_," comes the voice.

"What are you sorry for?" I ask softly, trying to coax out answers to get to the root of the problem. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Talk to me and I'll help you."

There's a laugh. "_This suits you_," the man on the other end says.

"Excuse me?" I feel myself frown.

_"I've been thinking about offing myself lately,_" he starts, dismissing my confusion. _"I think I might. I just need to do one last thing._"

"Why do you want to kill yourself?" I ask.

_"I've been gone for a long time, you see. I just got home and I'm realizing that everything has changed and everyone has moved on. I used to matter and now I don't._"

"Everyone matters," I say gently.

"_On a small scale, maybe_," he reasons with himself. _"I get that now. I never used to_."

He's stubborn. "Why do you say that?"

"_I hurt a lot of people because, to me, they didn't matter_," he continues. "_I'd be doing humanity a favour if I put a gun in my mouth and shot a bullet in my brain._"

"Sir, please don't do that," I try to reason while waving Wendy over and pointing to the phone. She knows what this means. It means we need to trace the call and try to prevent a death. "Sir?"

"_I wanted to hear your voice_…" another sigh. "_I missed it_."

Then he hangs up and like some sort of dramatic and intense mental implosion, I experience this moment of vivid clarity. I know that voice. I fucking _know_ that voice.

"Kyle, we couldn't trace it in time," Wendy informs me sadly. She touches me shoulder, squeezing it before walking off.

"It's okay," I whisper weakly, hanging up the phone before checking the number.

That, too, is familiar… It's my home number. He's in my fucking house…

My hands immediately begin shaking. I stand up and I run. I can hear Wendy calling my name and I know I'll have to come up with some sort of excuse for her later on, but I need to get home.

* * *

It's snowing again and the roads are icy, so the drive is long and I'm growing horribly anxious.

After Stan and Wendy got married, he moved out and Ike moved in. He finally finished school and moved back to South Park to find work. The economy still sucks, but it's a hell of a lot better than it was. He's a lawyer. Typical, right? If I had more motivation, I'd be one, too. It's easy living with Ike. He never forces me to talk, but he's always there for me when I need him. He knows what happened. He's gotten pieces of the story throughout the years, but he's certainly smart enough to put each shard together.

When I return home, I announce my presence, but hear no reply. Instead, a tall man shows up from around the corner. "Who –" I pause, cutting myself off. "Oh, God…"

"Don't tell me you forgot what I looked like," he says.

I slap a hand over my mouth as my suspicions are confirmed. The stubbly face threw me off, but yes, this is exactly who I knew it would be. "You look like a lumberjack," I tell him.

He just chuckles before sobering. "And you're drinking again," he scolds, gesturing behind me.

I turn around and notice all the alcohol is sitting on the counter. "Why did you go through my things?" I ask quietly.

"I wanted to see what you were up to," he shrugs. "I found your work number. Decided to call. Lucky I got you on the other end."

"Today is slow," I weakly explain, "It's only me, Wendy and Tammy there."

"I see."

"Why are you back?"

He just smiles. "I'll be gone tomorrow."

I press my lips together, beginning to feel that familiar weakness that always came with being around him. "Why show up now?"

"I was passing through," he tells me. "I've been travelling. I made a full circle. This is my last stop."

"You're last stop?" I ask, unsure what he means by that.

He only nods, choosing not to explain and I choose not to pry any further.

"People can't change," I say softly. "I learned that. You taught me that, but so did science. I've been reading textbooks lately… A person can change the small things, but they can't change who they are. You can't change who you are, Eric."

"I know," he admits. "I lied when I said everyone moved on, you know."

"Oh?" I ask.

"Everyone moved on, except for you."

"Me?" I frown. "I've moved on, too."

"No, you haven't," he states. "If you did, you'd be settled. You'd be living with a guy who would take care of you. You'd be playing happy family while cooking him dinner. Maybe you'd even have a few adopted kids… But no. Instead, you're living in a two bedroom apartment with your brother, trying to fix other people's problems and ignoring your own. You're thirty years old for fuck's sake…"

"You can't just walk back into my life and say things like that!" I shout, feeling like I might start crying at any second. I rub my hand over my face, pressing my lips together in an attempt to stifle a sob that wants to escape. Instead, I end up letting out a pathetic whimper.

"Kahl…" he murmurs.

I clear my throat, looking away. "You said you were travelling?" I ask in a wet voice, needing to change the subject.

He nods, taking the backpack off his shoulders and pulling out an album. "Here," he hands it to me.

"What's this?"

"Photos I took," he says. "I developed them all and put the best ones in there."

He always did have a passion for photography. I sit down on my sofa and open to the first page. "Where is this?" I ask, pointing to a photo of a massive waterfall.

"Niagara Falls," he says, sitting next to me.

"You went to Canada…"

"Yeah. That's the first place I went after leaving the USA."

I flip to the next page and then the next. Eric continues telling me about where he went and what he saw.

Canada, Greenland, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Russia, China, India, Pakistan, Iran, Ukraine, Germany, Turkey, Lebanon, Israel, Egypt, Sudan, Zambia, Botswana, all through South America, and finally he's back here.

"You've been all around the world… I'm surprised you adventured to the Middle East," I admit.

"So am I," he snorts. "Brown people everywhere."

"Where are you going after this?" I ask, but he stays quiet. "Eric…?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know yet," he says in a strange voice. "Maybe nowhere, maybe somewhere."

I close the book, setting it on the coffee table. "Why are you here, Eric?"

"I want to give you a proper goodbye."

I let out a breath, closing my eyes for a moment. "Goodbye?" I ask quietly.

"I won't be back after today," he says.

"Why?"

"Because it isn't good for either of us. If I stay, there will be a repeat of what happened before I left. It'll be an endless cycle… You make me fucking crazy."

Sick and sad as it makes me feel, I can't deny it… Yet, I feel oddly melancholic. I lean forward and press my lips to his, slowly and gingerly. It isn't necessarily a romantic kiss, it's just a kiss – simple as that.

"What's that for?" he asks.

"I forgive you," I say. "For everything you did to me."

"You do?"

I nod, "I think I forgave you a long time ago, but you weren't around to hear me say it."

"You shouldn't forgive me," he whispers, cupping my face in his palms.

"I've learned that there are times when you need to forgive," I say. "Not only for the other person, but for yourself as well. It's too tiring to hold grudges."

"How like you," he chuckles, kissing the top of my head.

Eventually we move to my room. We don't have sex. That's not what this is. That would only drag us in even deeper than we still are. Instead, we just talk, lying side by side on my bed, with our shoulders touching innocently.

When midnight strikes, he shifts. "I should head out," he announces.

I want to protest, but I don't, because like he said, it's for the best. This time, we don't kiss. Instead, I take his hand and I hold it in mine for a moment before letting go.

That's what I'm doing. I'm letting go. Of everything.

"Goodbye," he smiles.

"Goodbye," I say, returning the smile.

And I'm alone once again. I return to my room and lay down on my bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

* * *

When I wake up, I begin to wander through the house in a dazed manner, trying to get rid of the cotton feeling in my head. Last night felt almost like a dream.

"Kyle?" I hear.

"What is it, Ike?" I ask. "Did you just get home?"

"Yeah," he says. "What is this?" He holds up the album from last night. Eric must have left it here. I guess it really wasn't a dream.

I approach him and take it, holding it to my chest. "They're photographs."

"Who took them?"

"A friend of mine."

"Oh, that's nice," Ike says. "You got a letter, by the way. I checked the mailbox on my way up." He hands me a small, white envelope.

I take it from him and tear it open –

_Kyle –_

_I think that was definitely a better goodbye than last time. You told me earlier that you learned about forgiveness, and I thank you for it. Because you forgave me, I think can leave this time and be content with wherever I end up. Like you, I've also learned something. I've learned that sometimes you need to hurt someone to help them in the long run. Perhaps that's what we did for each other. If we stayed together, it would have been even more painful. You may not believe me, but I never wanted to hurt you the way I did. I just wanted to hurt you enough to make you mine. Forever. But that is selfish and another thing I learned is that when it comes to love, you need to be a little selfless. So that's why I'm leaving. South Park was my final destination. It was good seeing you again. It was a nice way to be sent off. _

_Perhaps we'll meet again in another life – one where I can be a better person. _

_EC _

"Kyle?" Ike frowns, approaching me slowly.

I just shake my head. "It's nothing," I whisper. I don't need to talk about Eric anymore. He's gone now. I can read between the lines. I know what this means.

"You're crying…" Ike points out.

Am I? I reach up and brush the damp trail off my cheeks. "I'm all right," I tell him. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I might mean it. This is the closure I've been waiting for. My heart feels immensely heavy, but it will heal. I can stop waiting now.

"Are you?" Ike asks quietly.

I nod, forcing a smile even though my eyes are still wet. "I will be…"

"Kyle," he says gently. "You don't need to do that… cry if you want to."

I give him a somewhat helpless look. Ike wraps his arms around my shoulders and I press my face into the crook of his neck, letting out a long sob. He allows me to mourn, not asking questions or begging for answers. He's quiet because he knows there are times when silence is best and words are not needed. Times like now.

We can never go back. I understand this. All we can do is move forward, so that's what I'll do. For Eric Cartman, for my family, for my friends and for myself, that's what I'll do.

Tomorrow is a new day.

**- Fin -**


End file.
